Overthrown
by SennaNyx
Summary: When the US falls to outside forces in November 2013, Anthony thought Ian was killed 6 years ago. But his friend is still alive, working as a gunrunner in Anaheim and harboring a grudge against his best friend. But when Joven figures out he is still alive, and one of their number is taken hostage, Ian is forced to work with the people he never wanted to see again. (warnings inside)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't know how I come up with these ideas xD

So here is another Smoshy fic of mine that will be similar to my zombie apocalypse fic, Outlast, in that it features a lot of drama, violence, and intensity lol. This fic will be a bit darker than Outlast because of elements like alcoholism and PTSD. You've been warned.

It's mainly about Ian, but everyone else is involved. This fic takes place 6 years after November 2013, to avoid any confusion about pairings/other things relevant to 2014. Lol. Narrators will usually be Ian but if he's not there, it'll be anyone.

_A note on Melian: _I'm aware that Melian is no longer a thing (sob) but there will be allusions and hints to it within this fic, but it won't be a prominent plotline, for a good reason lol that will be revealed later. (Also, there is Erinshire, even though I understand that's no longer a thing either.)

I think that's everything I need to cover..I'll add more if I think of it. Okay, I hope you're ready for this crazy fic xD

* * *

March 28th, 2019

Anthony wearily climbed the steps of the run-down apartment complex. Coming home was always a worry for him; he never knew what he would find, if today would be the day the Russians found him and his family in what had become the slums of LA. He supposed they were doing nothing wrong, living there quietly and following their new laws, but the country's conquerors could sometimes be in a vindictive mood. He had heard explosions in the distance as the last of their army tried to rebel against the Russians. He'd thought perhaps they were simply tearing a building down, but then he'd heard the gunshots. Anthony had gotten out of there as quickly as possible, choosing a different route home from work. A longer, but perhaps safer route – although there really was no safe place anymore.

He was a bit frantic as he fumbled with the lock; until he saw the pale, drawn, but very much alive faces of his wife and daughter, he couldn't calm down. The lock clicked and he swung the door open, its paint peeling and its corners worn. It gave way to the dim, tiny living room, complete with tattered furniture that was not theirs, but rather inherited from the previous owners. Every time he saw the place he found it depressing – it was always too hot, rather poorly lit, and the wallpaper was faded and peeling away, windows with frayed frames and dirtied glass. He had hoped that Kalel would take to cleaning it almost immediately, but her mind had been focused elsewhere, worrying about him or tending to raising their daughter.

It didn't surprise him in the least to find David asleep on their tattered couch. His wife and son had gone for groceries one day and hadn't come back; the Russians had decided, quite inconveniently, to cut off the area they had gone to in order to create a new district. That had been two years ago, and he hadn't seen them since. So David spent his days in a bit of a fog, bouncing from Anthony's house to crashing at Joshua and Erin's place and back again. Anthony couldn't refuse him help even if he minded. He felt terribly for him, and he shared whatever food they had managed to ration, even if the other man often refused.

Not long after he had shut the door, Kalel hurried out of a bedroom and threw her arms around him. Anthony hugged her back, so relieved to find her safe. She smelled of unwashed clothes and the lank, musty smell that hung around the city these days, and when she pulled away from him, he saw there were circles under her eyes. But still she smiled, perhaps a little sadly, but there was relief in her eyes too. "I'm glad you're safe," she said quietly.

He hugged her again. "Where's Emily?" he asked. The fact that his little girl hadn't run out to greet him was a bit worrying, but if David and Kalel weren't frantic, everything was probably fine.

"She's sleeping. She had a bit of a nightmare, but she's all right now."

He found himself nodding. Given the state of the world, nightmares were quite common for a little girl – he had done his best to protect her from the reality of what was out there, but he couldn't stop her from hearing gunshots and explosions. And it had, unfortunately, become all too common nowadays.

"Did you...get our money?" his wife asked, looking up at him uncertainly with her large blue eyes.

Anthony swallowed. Now for the moment he had been dreading, when he would have to explain to Kalel that he had failed, that he couldn't provide for his family. He squeezed her upper arms. "I...I tried, Kalel, but he says he needs more time."

She dropped her gaze, and after one painful moment, she nodded once. He knew she didn't blame him – money was hard to come by these days, even if one worked hard to earn it. But now they would have to try and make what little they had in their cupboards last a couple more days. "It's all right," she said softly. She raised her hands to his and squeezed them. "I'm going to check on Emily."

"I'll be there in a second," he promised, and he bent down to kiss her.

Anthony watched Kalel disappear down the hallway, recalling the days when she would walk with far more animation and bounce. Now she moved as though weighed down with every burden that encumbered him, and he hated it. With a small sigh, he took a step toward the couch.

"David," he muttered, nudging his friend on the shoulder. If he couldn't bring home any money, he could at least make sure that they would have a little bit more food to eat. "David, wake up..."

The former gamer stirred, and he glared with one eye open and a frown on his face. "What?" he mumbled, and he rubbed at his eyes.

"I'm sorry, but food and money are tight at the moment, so..." His voice trailed off awkwardly. Telling his friend he was no longer welcome at his house for the time being was painful, but he knew David would understand.

He nodded dazedly, sitting up and yawning. "Right. Right. Sorry, Anthony. I'll get going. I'll go to...what's-his-name's house."

"Thanks," he said softly. "And I'm really sorry."

David shrugged. "It's no big deal. You have a kid to look after." He got to his feet, stretching. He looked too thin. All of them looked too thin. "All right, I'll see you later."

"Be safe," Anthony told him softly. David had always been careful in the past, but anything could happen. Anthony knew that very well by now. They couldn't lose another friend. He couldn't bear it.

The older man gave him a derisive gaze, until he realized he was serious and his features softened. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

But Anthony couldn't help worrying as David slipped quietly out the door, careful not to disturb the sleeping girl in the house. If he didn't hear from him in a couple days, Anthony would check on him himself. With that decided, and knowing guiltily that it was the only thing he could do, he walked toward the dim hallway that held his daughter's bedroom.

Kalel was gently coaxing Emily Padilla into the waking world when Anthony cleared the doorway. Every time he saw her, he was hit with the same awe as he studied her features, a perfect blend of both himself and Kalel. Her dark hair hung in ringlets around her shoulders, and tiny hands rubbed at her eyes, situated serenely above her youthful round face. As she dropped her hands and blinked at him, Anthony's heart clenched at the color of her eyes; a focused, sharp dark blue.

"Daddy!" Emily cried, throwing herself into his arms.

He picked her up, holding her against his chest. "Hey, Emmie," he said, shifting his arms slightly to hold her more securely. _Jesus, she's getting heavy. _"I heard you had a nightmare?"

She wrinkled her squishy, undefined nose. "It wasn't bad. I got back to sleep." She grinned at Kalel, who sat on her daughter's bed, watching the two of them with a smile. "Mama helped me."

"That was nice of her," Anthony said, smiling at Kalel too.

Kalel got to her feet. "How about you go and play in the living room while your dad and I make dinner?"

"Okay!" their daughter agreed amicably, and when Anthony set her down, she ran into the hall. He heard her little feet patter against the thin, worn carpet.

His wife drew closer to him. "Be sure to draw the blinds," Kalel told him quietly. "In the living room. Just in case."

He nodded. He hadn't needed to be reminded. The fewer people who knew where they lived, the better.

Anthony followed Kalel to the kitchen, where they would have no trouble keeping an eye on their daughter. She knew not to go outside, not to converse with anyone, not to trust their neighbors – and he hated it. This was no way to live, being in constant fear of attacks, always in a state of paranoia. He had never wanted to raise a family this way. Sadness gripped his heart as Anthony helped Kalel chop up the squishy, too-ripe tomatoes. He would have given anything for Ian to be there, helping him through this, making him laugh when he just wanted to break down and give up.

* * *

Joshua sat heavily beside the occupied hospital bed, almost throwing himself into the comfy, squishy chair. He took a moment to rub his eyes behind his glasses. What a fucking day. He had been up since two in the morning, helped at least fifty people with minor to severe injuries, and at the end of the last hour, had told a girl with blood poisoning that there was nothing they could do to help her. He would not forget her face for a long time.

He gently lowered his hands, straightened his glasses, and looked solemnly at the immobile figure lying in the bed. She had tangled, dark hair, and some of it was splayed across her face from the last time the nurses moved her. Joshua brushed it away gingerly, revealing the woman he had known for years. She was older now, though, and there was a sickly hue to her features, and the oxygen mask over her face obscured her mouth and nose. Joshua watched her sadly for a moment, listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Joshua swallowed several times before he began speaking. "Today was awful," he told her quietly. Her chest rose and fell gently, but otherwise she was perfectly still. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. I can't tell Erin about it – she doesn't need more to worry about, and she's not that great at being reassuring. You always were, though." His eyes watered, and he took off his glasses and rubbed at them again. "I could really use your insight right now, Mari."

The Japanese woman remained as she was. He had begun talking to her not long after she had been attacked and her coma struck her, hoping that by some miracle his voice could reach her and pull her out of it. And if she was somehow still aware in the depths of her unconscious brain, it had to be terrifying not knowing what was going on, so he had taken it upon himself to tell her everything. Almost everything, that is – he hadn't mentioned anything to her the day Sohinki disappeared, three years ago, just a couple weeks after the other man had brought her to the hospital, bloody and disoriented. Joshua's heart clenched, remembering the way Sohinki had stayed by her side the moment she had fallen into the coma, remaining there as she underwent surgeries and staying as long as he could into the nights. Until one day he'd been forced to leave, and Joshua had not seen him since. A million things could have happened to his old friend, and he and David had gone to enormous lengths to try and track him down, but they had come up with nothing.

A thought struck him, something he had wanted to mention to her, and he sat up a little straighter. "Something happened when I was in town the other day," he told her quietly. "I...I know it's impossible, Mari, and I'm almost sorry to bring this up...but...I was walking along the sidewalk, and I swear, just for a moment, I saw Ian." He swept his hands outward in a disbelieving gesture. "I know it's crazy. I know it can't happen. But that guy I saw looked so much like him..." Joshua shook his head, remembering the man he had seen for only a split second. But if Mari really was conscious beneath the coma, she wouldn't want any false hope that one of her dearest friends had suddenly been seen around Anaheim. Anthony had seen Ian get shot himself; there was no way he was still alive. "I'm sorry to bring that up. I won't mention it again."

He blinked away the wetness in his eyes. They had lost Ian six years ago, the day the Russians had taken over. Then Mari had been attacked and perhaps would never recover. And then Sohinki was gone, simply disappeared without warning one day. They were losing what remained of their sorry little group; after he'd lost Ian, Anthony had taken measures to make sure the rest of them stayed safe, but he couldn't protect them all. Joshua remembered his pain after Ian's death, the lost look in his eyes that lingered for months. It hurt to think about it now. Joshua thought that perhaps he ought to visit Anthony and his family; David would be there, and it had been a few days since they had caught up. Everyone needed a break from the violence and terror of the war.

For now, though, he had a place here, taking care of patients and watching over Mari. He turned to look at her again, meeting her closed eyes, and leaned back in the chair, beginning his silent vigil beside her.

* * *

Ian stared absently into his drink. Despite his requests, they hadn't made it strong enough, and he wouldn't have ordered it at all if it hadn't made him look less suspect. He scowled at it, resting his arm on the briefcase beside him. The bartender was watching him warily as he scrubbed glasses with a dirty cloth. The guy was American, but Ian had ordered in a thick Russian accent, throwing off his pursuers and anyone else who might be listening. Even with all his caution and effort, Ian had learned long ago that language was the best disguise. No one would bother him as long as he remained at the bar – except, of course, the man he was supposed to meet. His hands shook. He wanted a cigarette.

He took a drink. It was vodka, of course, but not the strong stuff he usually drank, which was a pity. He could really use it at the moment. The bar was filled with drunk Russians, who shouted, laughed, and drank heavily, and pregnant Russian prostitutes; one of them leered at him as she passed, showing crooked yellow teeth and entirely too much of her bulging stomach. Ian dropped his gaze back to his drink and the woman thankfully ignored him. He wished the guy would hurry up. He didn't want to remain in this bar, surrounded by Russians, any longer than he had to. Ian knew he could blend in easily, but he could not let go of the worry that one of them would realize he was American, or recognize him, or something else would go wrong. He took another drink to ease himself.

It took considerable effort not to start when the man arrived suddenly, sitting beside him heartily and ordering a drink before he had introduced himself. Ian responded in perfect, practiced Russian, and hinted rather strongly that he wanted to get the transaction underway. He slid the briefcase closer to him.

But the Russian man had clearly had a bit to drink before arriving; he wiped his graying hair away from his eyes and declared, "You're a bit young to be a gunrunner, aren't you?" He took a generous swig of his drink.

Ian forced a faint smile. He had been told that many times; the first was when he was twenty-six and delivering guns for the first time, terrified and nervous. Now, though, he'd done this enough to scam drunken Russians of their money. "Thanks. Makes it easier to get here."

The man laughed heartily before turning his attention to the briefcase. "All right, all right. Show me what you have."

He did. The Russian man's eyes ran over the dismantled guns, eyeing them greedily. He actually licked his lips.

"Well, you've got quite a collection here, but I'm a bit wary of your asking price."

Ah. He needed more to drink. Ian nodded absently, sipping at his own drink; the man didn't hesitate to copy the gesture, but he took a much more generous gulp, which was exactly what he had been hoping for. "All right. We can negotiate."

But by the time the Russian man had settled on a price he liked, he was very red in the face indeed, and Ian had no trouble misdirecting the cost to its initial value. The guy agreed readily, shoving a bundle of Russian dollars at him before heartily shaking his hand. "Good doing business with you," he said, his eyes unfocused and glassy.

Ian smiled pleasantly. He was pretty happy about the clump of ruble in his hand and the ease of the transaction. The Russian man left the bar in a stumbling, unsteady manner. Ian then paid for his drink with the money he had just acquired and followed the man outside.

"He took a left," a gruff voice in his ear said. "He's heading up 4th."

He knew. He had seen him. Through the sparse crowd of mute, anxious faces, it was easy to spot the drunken man. Ian moved through them at a brisk pace. No one looked at him, no one made contact with him; they carefully avoided him as though he was marked. He was used to it. Dressed as he was, he looked like a Russian. These were Americans, and they had every right to be scared.

The sky overhead was a murky, dark gray. It had been that color the week before, and the week before that. Too many explosions and fires in too short a time had mottled it so badly Ian rarely saw the sun. Once, its rays had peeked through the wisps of unnatural clouds created by the bombings, but an attack that night by the rebels had obscured the tiny window. Now, it seemed the sky would forever reflect the same dark gloom hindering the citizens.

Ian paused when he noticed the Russian man cross the street. With staggering, awkward steps, he fumblingly opened the door of a windowless building and let himself inside. Ian waited.

"It's clear. We've been watching the building. You should be fine."

_Then why couldn't you take care of this? _Ian thought bitterly, but he knew why. He was the youngest, the least experienced, and he had nothing to lose. According to his boss, he was expendable. Ian crossed the street and placed a hand on the gun in his jacket. He opened the door.

Inside, it was very dark. The immediate hallway revealed a narrow stairway that went up and out of sight. There were two doors on either side of him. Ian listened. He could hear Russian being spoken in quick, hushed tones, but he couldn't understand what the man was saying. Ian prodded the first door open, listened some more, and tried the other door. This time, the voice was much louder. He drew his gun. "We've got enough guns, I think," came his slurred voice. Ian listened as he let himself into the room. "That should be enough to crush the rebels, perhaps we can begin soon –"

To say that the man was surprised to see him was rather an understatement. He froze and dropped the phone; then swore loudly in Russian, commanding him to leave. "Sorry," Ian said, in English this time, "you have something of mine."

"American," sneered the Russian man, right before he was shot in the chest.

Ian stepped over the body and collected his guns. He checked them and counted them, retrieved most of the others the Russians had collected, then left the room, switching on the microphone under his shirt. "I got the guns," he said, "and the guy's –"

The front door opened suddenly. At once, the large Russian shouted something, grabbing the folds of Ian's collar and slamming him against the wall. The briefcase slid from his hands.

"American!" yelled the man. "What the fuck are you doing in –"

"No!" Ian cried in Russian, looking anywhere but into the man's eyes. "No, don't hurt me, I didn't mean to trespass –"

At the sound of the correct language, the man's fury fled, and he released him at once. "I apologize," he said quickly. "I thought you were an American...my mistake."

But when he turned away to leave, Ian shot him too.

The voice in his ear had turned frantic. "Ian? Ian, are you there?"

He looted the body and found a revolver and several rounds of ammo. "I'm here," he said, straightening up. He knew that no one outside would investigate the gunshots; shootings had become all too common these days. Unfortunate for society, perhaps, but convenient for him. "I got an extra gun."

His job was done. It was time he returned to the base and let the others deal with what he had collected. Ian left the building with the guns in hand. He was looking forward to that fresh bottle of vodka he had stashed in his room and the promise that no one would bother him.

* * *

A/N: Everyone from Smosh seems to be doing pretty well, right? :D

Next time: A lot of backstory on Ian on why the hell he's the way he is now lol and why he hates Anthony. Also, Joshua decides to follow a hunch.

Thanks for reading, guys. Please leave a review with any comments or questions haha; I'm sure I forgot to mention something xD I hope you liked the intro chapter! :D More to come soon :)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: A super dramatic chapter coming up. Get ready for some intensity surrounding what happened to Ian six years ago.

And be careful what you wish for, Joshua.

Enjoy :)

* * *

April 9th, 2019

Joshua only saw him for a second, but it was enough.

He was running through the crowd in an instant, swerving past civilians and shouting for the man he was sure he had seen. It had been six years since Joshua had last seen Ian, and faces in memory tended to fade over time, yet Joshua was positive it was him. "Ian!" he shouted; every once in a while, he could see the person he was after through gaps in the crowd some thirty feet ahead of him. "_Ian!_"

He had come there in an attempt to track down a new pillow for Mari. It seemed foolish, making so much effort for something so simple, but he would do it only for Mari. But Joshua had not counted on spotting a ghost. With everyone else around him walking slowly and despondently through the city, he was making quite a scene trying to catch up with his old friend. Joshua didn't care. _He's dead, _a voice in the back of his head tried to tell him. _What the hell am I doing? It's not him. It can't be. _But something kept him going.

Joshua was tall enough to see over most of the crowd. He peered around a group of Middle Easterners, who had joined the war a couple years ago and aided the Russians any way they could, and caught a split-second glimpse of the figure in question slip into a hotel.

By the time he got there, he was out of breath and panicky. Joshua burst into the hotel far too late to catch him. The Russian woman at the counter stared at him, and she even edged back a little. She exchanged a glance with a severe-looking man on the other side of the counter. "I'm looking for someone," he said, winded. "I think he just checked in here. It's really, really important that I speak to him." _Why? _he found himself wondering. _He's not here. He's dead. Anthony saw it happen six years ago. _But the man he had seen had looked so much like him...he couldn't mistake the face shape, the hair color. He was sure it had been him.

The woman opened her mouth, but the man cut sharply across her. "No one checked in," he said coldly. "Please leave."

Joshua stared at him. The man spoke with an American accent. He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I swear I saw him. His name is Ian Hecox. Let me see him. Please."

"Leave," the man repeated. Something in his eyes flashed. Joshua noticed the gun at his side.

"Okay, okay," he said, backing out of the lobby. "Sorry. Must have been my mistake."

He stepped into the gloomy afternoon, disheartened. Either he really was mistaken or that man was very carefully hiding whoever had checked in...if it had been Ian, Joshua wondered why that man had been covering for him. He shook his head ruefully. _What am I doing? _he thought. _He's gone. It's been six years. There's no way he's still alive. _

But it was impossible for Joshua to rid himself of the profile he had seen. It had been so familiar it was almost eerie; the man had looked so much like the guy he had worked with so long ago. He wished Anthony had been there to see him too, otherwise he doubted he would believe him. Joshua shook his head, scuffing his foot on the dirty and ashy sidewalk and began his trek back to the hospital. He wouldn't bother Mari with this story. She didn't need anymore false hope.

"Wait! Sir!"

Joshua turned. The young Russian woman hurried toward him, her tattered dress fluttering in the wind. He blinked at her, offering her a hand in case she tripped, but she straightened up and said breathlessly, in a thick accent, "He leaves around eleven tonight."

"What?"

She shook her head and ran a hand through her thick bangs. "The man who stopped you. He leaves around eleven. You can visit your friend then."

"Oh – really!" Joshua's heart leapt. "That's – that's great! Thank you so much!"

The woman offered him what he suspected was a rare smile.

Joshua hesitated, knowing not to push his luck, but said gently, "The guy I'm trying to meet up with...is his name Ian?"

And she shook her head, and his hopes sank once more. "No, sir. He spoke Russian."

"He did?" Joshua frowned. It couldn't be him, then.

"No, sir, but you were correct when you said that a man had checked in just a moment before you arrived. I am not sure if it is who you are looking for, however. Would you still like to try?"

"Yes," he said at once. "So...I'll be here around eleven." _I hope he won't be sleeping, _he thought. _Hell, I doubt it's even him. In the worst case, I'll just be waking up some Russian guy. Ian will be worth it. _Joshua offered the young woman another smile. "Thank you so much."

* * *

Ian was attempting to leave the hotel when John, a fellow gunrunner, stopped him in the hallway. He raised his eyebrows at him. "Don't go to the lobby for a minute," his coworker of sorts said.

"Why?" Ian demanded. He wanted to get to the market to buy another bottle of vodka.

"Because there's someone down there looking for you." John just looked at him. "He knew your real name."

The words sent a pang of worry twisting his insides, but Ian dismissed it at once. "It's probably no one. Someone who thought they recognized me, or maybe someone I worked with a long time ago. I'm not worried."

John shrugged. "You're the one who likes to be careful. I just thought I'd warn you. Go down there if you're curious, but if you get shot, I'm telling the boss you didn't listen." Before Ian could come up with a response to that, John disappeared into his own room.

Ian hesitated in the middle of the hallway. His heart was burning with curiosity, demanding to know who had pursued him. He thought of the obvious choice, but his mind refused to think of the man who had once been his best friend, and his memory only made him angrier. Ian turned toward his room abruptly. _I don't want to see him anyway._

Still...this meant that someone knew who he was. Someone had tracked him down, figured out where he was staying, and even knew his real name. It could be anybody; an old acquaintance, someone he had once ripped off, or, indeed, an old business partner looking to work with him again. Whoever it was, Ian knew he was better off alone. He shoved aside his curiosity.

He was deterred from his sanctuary by the old housemaid, who was as Russian as she was befuddled. "You're back," she said in Russian, wheeling her cart of cleaning supplies along the worn-down hall.

Ian switched languages at once. "Good to see you again, Olga," he said smoothly. He had stopped by this hotel earlier this month on another business trip. It had ended with the loss of a valuable AK47; his boss was not happy.

"I was hoping I would see you again. Was there anything you needed?" And she grinned at him with her crooked teeth.

He smiled too, and he found himself using the voice he donned when scamming people out of their guns and money. "No, thank you. I appreciate it. I'll let you know if I do." Ian wondered if she had any money on her, anything of value...he shoved the thought aside. He didn't have to be an asshole to the first person sincerely worried about him in years. Still, though, Ian unlocked his door. Even if they thought he was Russian too, and they were trying to be nice, he hated talking to them for too long. He couldn't stand Russians.

The smile she fixed him with was far too much like a leer for his liking. "Do that, sir. I'll see you later." She wheeled her way down the hall and offered him a final grin.

Ian locked himself in his room. He was used to people believing he was Russian, but it was unnerving how differently he was treated depending on which language he used. Americans were persecuted, silenced, and shunned, while their Russian conquerors were suddenly entitled to whatever they desired. He sat heavily in the armchair beside the fireplace, which was too dusty and dirty for use.

_Well, hell. _With whoever was looking for him downstairs, lurking in the lobby waiting for him to show up, Ian could not yet leave. He needed vodka. And perhaps some extra bullets. There was no telling what would happen, who might be looking for him. He rubbed his eyes, and despite his efforts, his thoughts landed on the unknown person who had demanded to see him. _This is why I didn't want to get too close to LA, _he thought bitterly. He had left the sanctuary of Anaheim in pursuit of a business deal that would keep himself and his enterprise fed for another month or so. It was his own damned fault if his _friends – _the word churned in his mind unpleasantly – had somehow discovered him.

He lit a cigarette. It wasn't a glass of vodka, but it would calm him down until he could get out of the hotel and focus his mind on something else. Ian watched the afternoon sun dip lower in the sky through the grimy window. He closed his eyes briefly and took another drag on his cigarette, wondering how the hell his life had ended up so insane.

* * *

_November 20__th__, 2013_

_When the bullet hit, he could feel it tearing through skin, muscle, tissue. He hit the ground hard. He grabbed the wound, and something warm and sticky spread around his hands, leaking through his fingers. The only sound he heard was his own ragged breathing. He was shaking so badly he couldn't keep pressure on the gunshot. The streetlights around him faded in and out. _

_He rolled onto his back, looking down at the damage. He had gotten shot in the chest, through a lung perhaps – it was difficult to breathe. He took short, shallow breaths, his heart racing and pounding, the gunshot aching terribly. It felt as though he had gotten struck squarely in the chest with a metal bat. He looked around the streets for help, for the attackers, anyone – but he was alone. The Russians marched down a different street. With bloody, shaking hands, he fumbled for his cell phone and dialed the first number in his list of contacts._

Please answer. Please answer,_ he thought desperately. _I'm dead if you don't answer_. He sank to the concrete with the phone held to his ear, too weak to remain upright, clutching the bullet wound in his other hand. His ears began to ring, a high-pitched keen that made his head spin. Blood soaked his shirt. The phone rang once. "Hello? Ian?"_

_His friend sounded almost as frantic as he was. "I – I've been shot," he stammered at once, looking around the empty streets once more. He could hear sirens and more gunshots, but they were far away. "It's bad – I don't know what to do, I need help." He knew Anthony was close by; it wouldn't be too dangerous for him to come and help him...surely it wouldn't. Anthony would save him. _

"_Oh my God." There was a pause, he mumbled something to someone else – "I – I've got Kalel with me, I'm sorry, we're safe, I don't know if we can move –"_

"_What?" Ian had frozen. Terror, as strong as it had been before, bled like ice through his veins. His brain refused to accept what Anthony was trying to tell him. _

_The voice on the other line was anguished. "I can't risk us getting caught, those fuckers are everywhere –"_

"_They're gone!" Ian choked. "I swear – I swear they're gone!"_

_Another terrible pause. When Anthony spoke, his voice was strangely cold; it didn't sound like him at all. "I'm sorry, Ian."_

"_Fuck you!" Ian cried. His eyes watered; he blinked, dispersing the liquid in his eyes. "Fuck you –"_

_His phone died. He dropped it. Numbness spread its way down his limbs. Anthony wasn't coming. No one was going to save him. He was going to bleed to death on the side of the road in LA. As light-headedness crept in, he dropped his arm, allowing the concrete to be his final resting place. His rage remained in the back of his mind. It never truly left, even as he lay dying._

_Blood loss caught up with him and he passed out for a short while. When footsteps approached, he forced himself awake, and he looked up at the strangers with half-open eyes. They wore black uniforms, carried weapons, and spoke with thick accents._

_One of them nudged him with his toe. "This one's still alive," he said. He didn't know why they were bothering to speak English. To scare him, perhaps._

_The other grunted. "What should we do? Bring him in?"_

_The light from the streetlamps bled together, and Ian once again lost track of where he was._

"_Sure. We could always use more…"_

April 9th, 2019

Ian was thrown rudely back into reality when someone knocked on the door. He froze, glancing at the shabby hotel door. It was probably that damned woman again, checking up on him. Shaking aside the remnants of the flashback, he sat up, setting the bottle of vodka aside. The last bits of memories would follow him around for a bit, but at least he wasn't caught in the grip of a flashback.

He stood. "I told you I don't need anything," he shouted at the door in Russian, too drunk to remember his manners. He had been looking forward to drinking until he fell asleep. It helped keep the memories away. Ian trudged over to the door.

He threw it open. Froze.

Ian had not seen this man in six years, yet he would have recognized him anywhere. He no longer had a mohawk, but his black hair was longer and combed neatly to the side. The taller man wore glasses and had grown a layer of stubble. There was no mistaking him, despite the differences, and Ian stared at him, searching for something to say. He felt the blood drain out of his face. Fuck. Fuck. This was not supposed to have happened. Not now.

Joshua found his voice first. "Holy shit – Ian." He took a step forward. "It is you – Jesus – we thought you were dead. Anthony said you were dead."

Ian tore his eyes away from his face and moved away from the door. He needed a drink immediately. He heard Joshua follow him inside, closing the door behind him. At least now the Russian patrons wouldn't hear their conversation, although his cover may have just been blown. God dammit. Joshua could mess up his entire sale.

He twisted the lid off the bottle of vodka and poured himself a drink. He didn't offer Joshua a glass. Ian ignored the other man as he stammered behind him. "How did you – I mean, you survived, obviously, but I mean, what happened?"

"How did you find me?" Ian asked curtly. He took a drink and turned, watching Joshua carefully.

Joshua dropped his arms, staring at him as though still trying to convince himself he was really there. "I – I thought I saw you the other day – I happened to be in the area, I saw you again, I saw you go in here...your friend stopped me from seeing you, so I had to wait. She – she said you spoke Russian though – did I just hear you talk Russian, just now?" He pointed to the door.

Ian stood there holding the glass, watching the other man stumbling over his words. He couldn't believe, of all people, Joshua had found him. He thought that Anthony would have figured out a long time ago that he had made it out of LA, although in pieces. He must have been pretty good at disappearing. He definitely hadn't wanted to be found.

He put the glass down. "I see."

Joshua looked like a child who was sure he was in trouble. He wrung his hands. "Ian. What happened in LA? Anthony said you got shot –"

"I did." Memories nagged at him, filled with blood and terror. He ignored them.

"He said you died."

Ian almost laughed. "I'm sure he did."

Joshua waited, but Ian didn't elaborate. "So you're not gonna tell me? I've thought you were dead for six years, Ian. You owe me an explanation. All of us."

"No, I don't," was his blunt response. He sat heavily in the armchair and reached for the glass of vodka.

There was a short moment of silence. Ian wished he would leave. He had to sell those guns tomorrow, or at least trade them, and he was supposed to meet the guy early the next day. It was already late in the evening. And he definitely had not expected this interrogation tonight. He had thought, perhaps rather foolishly, that he would never have to deal with any of his old friends again, and this uncomfortable conversation would escape him.

Joshua must have figured Ian wasn't going to tell him, because he said, "Would you like to know how the others are?"

Ian hesitated. He'd be lying if he said the information wouldn't interest him, but he cared so little for these people now that he couldn't bring himself to admit it. In the end he just shrugged.

The other man sighed, and he sat in one of the old armchairs. "David was cut off from his family a couple years ago. They're stuck in North District, and he can't get to them."

Ian didn't react. David's story sounded similar to half the guys he worked with nowadays. There was nothing unusual about it.

"Mari is in a coma," Joshua continued. Ian turned to look at him, his expression carefully impassive. "She was attacked three years ago and has been in and out of surgeries. We're not sure if she will ever recover."

He was beginning to feel numb again, and memories from his own past were prodding at him, threatening to throw another flashback at him. He ignored them and thought of Mari. He hadn't seen the Japanese woman in six years, but he felt she hadn't deserved what had happened to her. If he could find a way to help her, he would.

"Sohinki disappeared shortly after Mari got hurt. We haven't seen him or heard anything about him since."

The news didn't really surprise him. Once the Middle East had gotten involved, they had made a point of burning down churches and synagogues. They had also hunted down every Jewish family. Ian had once seen a Jewish couple tortured to death in the streets. Their skin had been so badly flayed they were unrecognizable.

If Sohinki hadn't been targeted and murdered, he was probably hiding out somewhere.

Ian met Joshua's gaze at last, anticipating the name he had been waiting for. "Anthony and Kalel are married. They've got a kid now; she's five. They live in the slums downtown, and David often visits and stays there."

Ian rolled his eyes and turned away. Anthony had a kid – of course he did, the idiot. Why not have a child in the middle of a takeover? The kid had probably been an accident. He tried to find any sort of sadness, any hint that he missed his old friend, but Ian found only anger and bitterness.

"Uh, that's only four, though. I'm forgetting someone." A pause. "Oh – myself. Well, I'm volunteering to work at the hospital where Mari is staying, to kind of look after her, since everyone else is so busy. I still see Erin sometimes."

The glass of vodka had been emptied. Ian reached for the bottle, pouring himself another generous drink. His hand shook. He had never wanted to hear from these people again, but suddenly Joshua was here, having tracked him down by a stroke of luck. He couldn't believe it. After the horrors six years ago in LA, he had been quite happy to leave that past behind him.

Memories prodded at him, louder now. He hastened to take another drink and they quieted somewhat. Ian looked over at Joshua, who looked as though he expected him to say something. He would be waiting a long time.

Joshua looked away, and his eyes fell on the open briefcase on the coffee table. Ian stared at the wall as Joshua examined it, looking at the various guns and weapons jammed inside.

"You're a gunrunner," he said, looking at the dismantled AK47. Joshua tried to catch his eye, but Ian was very carefully ignoring him. "Aren't you?"

Ian just shrugged again.

"You're probably with those guys who kill any Russians and then pretend that someone else did it and cause more conflict. Trading guns is only part of it." He narrowed his eyes. "David told me about them. You've been in Anaheim this whole time, haven't you? That's where they made their base."

At this, Ian turned his head to look at him. Why Joshua had suddenly chosen now to be this observant, when he had been a stumbling fool during the days Ian had worked with him, was beyond him, but it was certainly inconvenient. Not only had Joshua tracked him down, but he had figured out his line of work as well.

And Ian had no idea what to say to this sudden interrogation.

Joshua grit his teeth. "Look, Ian. Tell me what happened. You've lied to us for six years."

"I didn't lie to you," Ian said, finding his voice at last. "I just didn't let you know I had survived."

His old friend's scowl became more pronounced. He pressed his glasses up against the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was losing his patience. "I'm going to find Anthony, and tell him you're still alive. Do I need to get him to talk some sense into you?"

The mention of his oldest friend had him seething again, and the memories came back in a terrible wave. Blood, terror, the report of gunshots. The old wound in his chest throbbed. Ian hastened to refill his drink. "Fine. Go tell Anthony, if it'll get you to leave. I'll be long gone by the time you get back with him. Apparently I'm good at disappearing."

His hand was shaking badly now. He couldn't get the alcohol into his system fast enough. Flickers of a flashback sent his mind reeling – a rickety, squeaky car ride, his shirt slick with blood...

He blinked again, and he was back in the hotel room. But his heart pounded frantically. He could still hear screams and gunshots, muffled slightly by Joshua's voice.

"It doesn't matter – I know where you work now. I can probably find you again. I'm sure you don't want that. So tell me now, and maybe I'll leave you alone."

Ian couldn't ignore the memories any longer. He put his glass down and leaned forward in the armchair, rubbing his eyes and his temples. He needed Joshua to leave immediately. He was bringing back memories of situations he had tried to hard to forget – moments so terrifying he needed alcohol every night to get to sleep.

He felt the pistol in his jacket. Thank God he'd left it there.

"How much of that have you had?" Joshua asked suddenly. Ian opened his eyes in time to see him nodding toward the half-empty bottle of vodka. He just thought Ian was drunk, and he partially was, but Joshua was oblivious to the demons plaguing him.

"Not enough, apparently," Ian said. He drew a shaky, unsteady breath. Joshua scowled, and tried his assault again.

"Do you know what Anthony has gone through since you've been gone? He hasn't been himself, Ian, and it's because – "

"I really don't care." He stopped Joshua's train of thought with his sharp words; the other man's mouth snapped shut. After what Anthony's cowardice had put him through, Ian could have cared less how he had acted since Ian had 'died.' Anthony had no right to complain.

But Josh did not seem deterred. His eyes hardened, angry at being cut off. "Look, I haven't seen you for six years and –"

Something in his head snapped. Suddenly he couldn't stand to listen to Joshua's voice anymore – not with the memories prodding at him. Ian reached for the gun in his jacket. He pointed it at Joshua, flicking the safety off. The other man froze, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"You want to know what happened to me?" Ian snarled. Screams and gunshots sounded in the back of his head, but he ignored them. Every time he blinked, he was thrown back and forth between present time and the memories that haunted him from six years ago. "I was shot in LA trying to get out of there. The Russians found me. They had been looking for survivors, see, particularly Americans. They had set up this prison where they said they were running experiments, but in reality it was to scare Americans and our allies. Not a lot of people survived." He fought to keep his voice steady, but the memories had shifted to flashes of light and splatters of blood. "I was there for six months."

The atmosphere in the room had gone very tense. Joshua was no longer staring down the barrel of the pistol, but at him instead. He was very pale.

Ian fought to ignore the flashbacks, but it was difficult with Joshua there. He cocked the weapon. "Get out."  
Joshua swallowed. "You wouldn't shoot me," he said, trying to be light, but his voice broke.

Ian pulled the trigger. The bullet fired over his old friend's left shoulder, striking the wall behind him. The report cracked and Joshua jumped in terror.

"What the fuck! Jesus –"

"Get out," Ian repeated. "I won't miss next time."

Joshua rose hastily to his feet, and Ian followed his movement with the barrel of the gun. The other man bustled to the door. He turned to look at him again. Ian had already put the gun away and reached for the vodka.

"I'm going to tell the others you're alive, Ian. We're going to try and find you."

"You do that," said Ian.

The door closed. Ian didn't bother with a glass this time. He drank deeply, but still the memories came, more intense and real than they had appeared in a long time. What would he do when Anthony found him? He would probably be crippled by the terrible memories, and Anthony was the last person Ian wanted to see when he was like that. Especially given that it had been Anthony who had caused most of them in the first place, if not all.

Ian had lost everything thanks to his oldest friend. And now, thanks to his own carelessness, he was about to meet up with him again in a few days' time. He shook his head. The bottle of vodka felt continually lighter in his hands. He would need more, but he couldn't remember where he had left his extra stash.

He didn't have enough to keep the memories at bay for much longer. Hopefully, though, when Anthony found him, he would be in a better state of mind. There were times when he couldn't remember anything about what had happened six years ago; and then there were times like that day, when they came back to him in an unpleasant wave.

Ian heard gunfire outside; the distant sound of an explosion. They were pretty common occurrences, given the state of the world, but they didn't help keep his terror away. He rolled over, trying to sleep, as memories prodded at the back of his mind and eventually overwhelmed his senses.

* * *

A/N: Oh dear. Poor Ian.

Expect a few more flashbacks that will explain some of the questions that have probably been raised :)

Next time: Joshua tells Anthony about Ian, but Anthony's dealing with a problem of his own. I wonder how he's gonna react to learning that Ian is still alive, hmm...

I hope you guys are enjoying Overthrown so far :D


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for the slight wait. College is tough. Blah.

This will probably be the only chapter without Ian. Enjoy :)

* * *

"Should we get some fruit?"

Anthony looked at the measly number of coins in his palm. They were a portion of what he was owed, but as life often went these days, they would have to make do. He sent Kalel a hesitant glance he knew she would understand. "We'll see if we have enough," he told her quietly. He gently squeezed the hand held in his, and she nodded once. They stayed close together within the crowded outdoor market. It had been set up on a street in LA, but since almost no one was driving, the Russians allowed their merchants to sell to Americans at repeatedly ridiculous prices. Anthony glanced at the sky, always nervous that a plane might appear and drop a bomb upon their heads. The sky gave nothing away except a bright gray dome, and they were trapped beneath it. He swallowed anxiously and he felt Kalel squeeze his hand; he looked down to find her rounded blue eyes were full of understanding. He smiled, to reassure her as much as himself, and turned back to the market, busy and loud around them. "Okay. What else?"

She nodded toward the bakery, just visible in a small part in the crowd, and a moment later their view of it was swallowed up by the mass of people going about their business. "Emily likes cheese sandwiches," she said.

"Ah, okay," he said, distracted; he was just tall enough to see over the crowd, and he had noticed that the eggs were very nearly gone. He gave her a few coins. "You get some bread. I'll just grab these eggs real fast."

"All righty," she said with the false cheer she injected into her voice to keep her family's spirits up. He never had the heart to try, and he loved and appreciated her efforts. He never would have remembered Emily's favorite food within a crowded market, surrounded by people he didn't know. Only she would somehow keep her head. _My wife, _he thought, so proud of her.

Anthony released her hand.

He moved carefully through the crowd, pushing and edging past people, Americans and Russians and Middle Easterners alike. He muttered "excuse me" to anyone he bumped into, his mind running over concerns for his family and his remaining friends, and by the time he made it to the seller's venue, his thoughts were very much elsewhere. He was not thinking that, since the seller was most likely Russian, he should be on his guard; but instead he thought of Kalel's concern, Emily's naïve happiness, the friends he had to look after. It simply was not in his nature to be suspicious of others, especially when he had people counting on him. Anthony forced himself back to reality, told himself they would be all right, and looked over the eggs in the tiny, filthy, glass refrigerator. They did not look well preserved, but they were the only eggs in the area, and both Kalel and Anthony loved pancakes for breakfast. The beady-eyed man behind the table eyed him. He was wearing a filthy tank top stained with something dark.

Buying them took longer than expected because the seller did not speak English. Anthony was in the middle of trying to understand how much they cost when a scream nearly stopped his heart.

"Kalel?" he said, whirling around; the other shoppers, were angled toward a scene on the other side of the market. Another scream, and this time he recognized his wife's voice. He did not realize he had dropped the coins. "Kalel! No –"

Anthony ran through the crowd, but he may as well have been walking, so densely were the human bodies packed into the street. He did not bother to be polite this time. His heart was beating like a piston in his chest, and the dread filling his veins was icy cold. _No. No. Not her. I shouldn't have left her alone, what the fuck was I thinking – _Through the gaps in the crowd, Anthony finally saw her. She was forced, kicking and screaming, into the back of an armored truck, and he was too far away to stop it. Her captors wore the dark uniforms of Russian soldiers. The sight of her struggling had him nearly in tears.

They slammed the doors shut and hurried around the truck. He did not hear the engine roar to life, but it seemed like an instant later the truck was running, and it had begun to pull away from the market. His heart lurched, watching it gather speed.

"No!" he screamed. But by the time he made it to her, the truck had sped off down the street, its tires squealing as it rounded a corner. Anthony was left alone.

There was not much point in going after the truck at this point, but Anthony pressed numbly on. The crowd around him, people he did not really see, returned to their business now that the excitement was over. Anthony had never felt so lost. For a moment, he thought that his heart, so active not even a moment before, had stopped entirely. Ice had flooded his veins, and he felt himself shuddering, shaking as he walked. His hands grasped his hair. "No," he whispered. _God, no. Not her, too. I lost another one. God, Kalel, I'm so sorry. _

Ian. Sohinki. Now Kalel, too. All gone, in one way or another, gone and never to be seen again. And Mari, too, if she never recovered; she had been hurt because Anthony had neglected to protect her. But Kalel was his wife, his other half – how was he going to raise Emily without her? Could he still get her back? Anthony felt his legs keep taking him forward, and he inadvertently dropped the groceries in his hands. He rounded the corner only to find a busy, but oddly quiet street. There was no sign of the armored truck.

He kept going. He walked for hours, searching in vain for the truck that had taken his wife from him. He had failed Emily, he had failed Kalel; his friends were disappearing one by one. Soon he wouldn't have anyone left. He blinked away the liquid in his eyes. There was no one here who would help him – no one in this new world would bother with his problems. They looked out for themselves, no one else. Anthony tried to look out for those who were important to him, but still he failed, over and over again. _I couldn't even keep my wife safe, _he thought numbly as he walked through the busy but silent streets, searching for something he had no hope of finding. _I'm so sorry, Kalel. _

* * *

Joshua knocked on the old, worn-down door. Once, twice, repeatedly. He was quivering with excitement. _Anthony is not gonna believe this, _he thought happily. In the back of his mind, nagging him with vague worry, reminded him that Ian had very nearly shot him, so desperate was their old friend to get him to leave. He could remember his cold, deadly serious eyes all too clearly. Ian definitely was not the same person...but Joshua would worry about that later. He was tired of seeing Anthony so lost and despondent, finding happiness only in his family. Maybe this would snap him out of it.

He heard someone approach their apartment door, pause by the keyhole, and open it hesitantly. Instead of looking up at Anthony, Joshua found himself staring down at David. "Oh, hi," he said. "Good to see you, man."  
"You, too," David said, letting him in. Joshua wrung his hands as he entered the apartment, looking around without really seeing anything. David eyed him with a frown. "Uh, are you all right?"

"Where's Anthony?" Joshua asked quickly.

David just looked at him almost worriedly. "He and Kalel went to the market. I'm watching Emily; she's playing in her room. What's got you all worked up?"

Joshua took a breath. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn't believe what he had discovered; they had gone six years thinking they had lost Ian and then suddenly, by a stroke of luck, he had found him. It seemed surreal, like he had solved a mystery, and he was bursting to tell someone. _Never mind that he's a...well, not a nice person. They'll want to know. _"I found Ian," he blurted out.

For a moment, David just stared at him. Joshua remembered when there was animation and confidence in his eyes, but when he was cut off from his family, he changed too. But Joshua saw a flicker of that old assurance in his eyes before detachment and disbelief settled over them. "You found Ian," he repeated in a monotone voice. "Joshua. Ian died six years ago."

"It was him," he insisted. "I swear. I talked to him. I'm not making this up."

David paused. He ran a hand through his short hair before he sat heavily on the tattered armchair. "You're sure," he said slowly.

"I swear."

His eyes narrowed. "Hmm." His old friend hesitated, and Joshua could almost hear his mind working. David had every reason not to believe him; sometimes his information was faulty and he jumped to conclusions too quickly, but this was very different. "I'm not saying I don't believe you, Joven, but...Anthony saw him get shot. There was no way he got out of LA."

"Well, he did," said Joshua. He wasn't sure if he should tell David all of what Ian had informed him; his past would be his to tell. Joshua hesitated for a moment before he dug in his pocket. "Look." And he held up Ian's old watch, the blue and silver cybernetic one no one had any idea how to read. Joshua had swiped it from his hotel room, as Ian had been too drunk to notice.

David's eyes widened and he sat up straighter, putting his legs underneath him as though about to leap to his feet. "That's...that's his. Holy shit." He swallowed several times. Joshua grinned, returning the watch to his pocket. David believed him. He knew it had been a good idea to steal it, assuming the new Ian didn't try to shoot him once he realized what he had done. "You found him, then. What did he say? Why hasn't he contacted us for so long?"

"Well..." Joshua paused, and he sat on the couch. "I...well, he's a gunrunner now, David. And I think he's been through a lot..."

"A gunrunner," David repeated. And, too late, Joshua remembered that David knew more about gunrunners than any of them. "Not those – not those assholes who do whatever the fuck they want and make things worse? He's been in Anaheim, hasn't he?"

"Yes," Joshua said grimly. "And he's...well, he's a lot different."

David narrowed his eyes. "Really," was all he said.

Joshua swallowed and explained further. "I...well, his personality is...uh, not himself. He's not who he used to be at all." He shook his head, remembering Ian's cold indifference, and said wryly, "He almost shot me."

There was a short moment of silence. David closed his eyes briefly and looked at him. "So you're here to tell Anthony about this," he said.

"Of course."

David was silent for a long time. His eyes had drifted out of focus as he considered it, and Joshua was fidgeting as he awaited his response. "Joshua..." His old friend hesitated, his brows furrowed and his shoulders hunched, looking torn. "Anthony has been through a lot, too. It's not going to do any good to give him false hope that he's going to see his best friend again because Ian might not even want to see him. If Ian is as changed as you say, it might be better that we leave him be, and just keep Anthony out of it."

His word rattled around in his head, ringing in the silence. Joshua ran a hand through his hair and fixed his eyes on the floor. "I get where you're coming from. I really do. But I'm sick of seeing Anthony so sad. Don't you think that this might help him?"

David shrugged. "You're the one who talked to Ian, Joshua. You tell me if you think seeing him again will do him any good. Either of them."

Joshua hesitated. He remembered the cold detachment in Ian's eyes, the indifference when Joshua told him how the others were doing, the icy way he dismissed what Joshua had told him about Anthony. Maybe David was right. Ian didn't want to see Anthony again, and Anthony might not want to see how much his friend had changed. It might be catastrophic for both of them.

But before he could think anything more of the matter, the front door swung open suddenly and Anthony appeared. Joshua thought he looked terrible; he was trembling badly, his face was very pale, his eyes wide. Joshua knew at once that, again, this new world had taken its toll. His heart leapt to his throat. "Anthony," he said, reaching for his friend as he closed the door, looking stunned, "what happened?"

Anthony swallowed several times. He looked as though he had been crying. "They took Kalel," he said in an oddly calm hushed whisper. "The Russians, they took her...I don't know where they went, but...she's gone."

Silence settled over the three of them. Joshua just looked at the younger man as numbness worked its way up his limbs. He had never felt sorrier for anyone. Anthony had lost so much in just the first year of the takeover, and he had worked to keep those who mattered most to him alive – he had not deserved this. "I'm so sorry," he heard himself say.

Anthony collapsed onto the couch with his head in his hands. "I searched for her, for so long, hours I think, but I couldn't...I don't know what to do!" he cried. Joshua sat beside him, his hand on his shoulder. "She was taken away in a truck, I couldn't get to her on time – I don't know who to go to or if she can even be saved..."

He rubbed his eyes. Joshua looked nervously to David, who looked as though he didn't trust himself to speak. "We'll...we'll help you, Anthony," Joshua said hesitantly, "any way we can." _But I don't know what to do, either. _People disappeared very easily these days. Joshua could attest to that; he and David had searched for Sohinki for months to years, to no avail. There was a good chance Anthony would not see Kalel again.

Silence. Joshua's heart was racing.

"Anthony," David said suddenly; both of them looked at him. "Ian's alive. Joshua just found him."

Shock jolted through his veins; Joshua looked quickly to Anthony. He had lifted his head from his hands, staring at David with shock so overwhelming he may as well have been speaking a different language. Joshua wondered what the hell David was playing at, telling Anthony about this _now. _"What?" he hissed.

Joshua swallowed, bringing himself back to the present, and brought out Ian's old watch again. "He's...he's working as a gunrunner, Anthony, with those guys we told you about," he said quietly.

Anthony seized the watch. He stared down at it, nestled in his palms, and was silent for such a long time Joshua thought he had gone into shock. Anthony began to mutter something under his breath, unintelligible and undoubtedly worrying, and David and Joshua watched him anxiously. He kept running a hand through his dark hair. "He's alive," he repeated slowly, louder and bolder. He looked up at Joshua with a face so shocked and hopeful it made him look years younger, and it was one of the saddest sights of Joshua's life. "Ian's alive."

And both sadness and hope flickered in Joshua's heart when he saw happiness flash in Anthony's eyes.

"He's alive," Anthony said again, looking down at the watch with unfocused eyes. "And he's a gunrunner." He stood up quickly, clutching the watch as though it was a lifeline. He muttered something they could not hear again, before his words shifted, and Joshua's hopes sank. "He'll help me. He'll help me get Kalel back."

Joshua glanced at David again, hoping he would intervene. "I...I don't know, Anthony," he said. "Ian is...a lot different. You might not like what you find."

But Anthony only shrugged, unconcerned. "This new world has changed all of us. I'm not worried. I mean, it's Ian. He'll help me, no matter what." Something clenched in Joshua's heart; he really had no idea. Maybe David had been right, maybe they shouldn't have told him...

Joshua swallowed and tried again. "He's not the same person, Anthony," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry, but it's true."

His friend paid no attention. Anthony began to pace, his hands behind his back. "He'll help me. If he's working with those guys, I'm sure they can get her out of there. They'll work together." Joshua dropped his gaze, despondent and lost; Anthony had not listened. If he did find Ian, he would be in for another unpleasant shock. Anthony paused and looked at them. "I don't know where it is, though."

Joshua looked to David once more. He didn't know where in Anaheim their base would be, either. "I know where it is," David said, sounding tired. He swallowed before adding, "I'll take you there."

"Great," Anthony said. He was still shaking, Joshua noticed; he had just received two terrible shocks, losing his wife and finding his best friend... _He didn't ask why Ian hasn't contacted us after all these years, _Joshua thought nervously, before another thought sent an unpleasant jolt through his heart. _Perhaps Anthony already knows that answer. _Anthony suddenly looked to Joshua, and he had never seen more desperate eyes. "Can you watch Emily?" he asked him.

He winced. "I don't think I can. I'm about to be really busy at the hospital because St. Heart just shut down, so patients will be moving into ours. I have to be there." And with the injuries he saw on a daily basis, it was certainly no place for a child.

Anthony grit his teeth. "We don't have anyone else to watch her," he said, looking at no one again, his eyes glassy. "We might have to just –"

"Daddy?" a small voice said suddenly. All three men looked to the hallway to find a pajama-clad Emily pad slowly into view. "Where's mom?"

The words twisted Joshua's heart. He looked down uncomfortably as Anthony gestured for his daughter to come over to him. The little girl padded hesitantly toward her father, and he hugged her tightly. "Your mom had to go away for a bit," he told her quietly. His daughter blinked at him, worry disheveling her fine features. "We're gonna see her again, but first...I'm going to introduce you to my best friend."

* * *

A/N: Oh dear...

Anthony really has no idea lol. Somehow I don't think Ian is going to be happy to suddenly find Anthony there xD And somehow I don't think Ian will want to rescue Kalel either. Just a guess.

Next time: Smosh meets for the first time in six years. Lol. Definitely a dramatic chapter ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: HOLY CRAP THANK YOU for all of your reviews/feedback! You guys are amazing! I really had no idea this story would be so popular; I'm so glad you all are enjoying it :) Thank you, too, to the guest reviews I can't reply to - I really appreciate your guys' input too!

I'm sorry for the slight wait, but college has been kicking my ass, and I _just _got the time to finish chapter 4 this weekend. Blah.

So - a short scene from Lasercorn's point of view, a short flashback, and then _drama _from Ian's point of view. Yay!

Enjoy :)

* * *

Laughing, David grabbed the little girl around the middle as she shrieked with laughter. "Nooo, put me down!" she cried, struggling feebly in his arms.

He turned her around until she was hanging upside down. "Are you going to poke me again?" he asked in a mockingly dangerous tone.

There was a pause. "Noooo..." Emily repeated, giggling harder, her face turning red.

"Then I'm afraid you're going to be held. You've lost your rights to walk."

"Aw, but Uncle David..." Emily Padilla laughed gleefully when he swung her around and placed her easily on his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his forehead as he held her little feet as they continued walking through the silent city. Those walking past ignored them entirely. "Yay! I'm so high up now! I'm even taller than you now, daddy." She moved her hands to David's hair, much to his displeasure, but he couldn't remember a time Emily had been let freely out of the house like this, and she was so happy – so he let it go.

They had been traveling for almost an entire day now; for most of the way they walked, though there were a few miles they were permitted a taxi. They had spent the night in the only hotel in the area still run by Americans. Though Anthony had been sure it was safe, and he seemed the least concerned about the dangers, David had still brought his pistol along. He kept it hidden and neglected to mention it to the younger man. Their backpacks were getting lighter, as the few rations they could take with were depleting fast, despite their efforts to eat sparingly.

David's eyes flicked over to Anthony. The taller man had been watching them, wearing an oddly sad smile. "You're really good with her," he told him.

The words reminded David of his own wife and son, lost somewhere in North District – David prayed every day that they were still all right. A flash of pain twisted at his heart, but he forced a smile. "Well, kids aren't that hard to understand. I was pretty much a kid myself when I worked at SmoshGames; our fans told me often enough." He grinned, remembering the days when their lives were much simpler.

Emily hummed something under her breath as she sat there on his shoulders. She began to pull at his hair; David gently grabbed her little hands and held them still. Anthony was grinning, too. "I remember. You still won most of the games, though. Mari, Joven, and I would usually end up in last place – unless the game was Mario or something." He smiled appreciatively.

He looked so happy, happier than he had in years, that it was difficult to voice what had been on David's mind the moment they had set out in search of Ian. "Anthony..." David looked at his friend, the man he had begun to rely on after his family was taken from him; when the dark eyes locked on his, he saw the sheer desperation. "Do you...don't you wonder why Ian didn't contact us after all these years?" When Anthony didn't answer, he continued gently, "He might not be willing to help you."

Anthony was silent for a long time. Emily sat quietly, listening but probably not understanding much of their conversation. At last, the taller man said, "I've known Ian since I was eleven. He's been my best friend for years...we've been through so much together, making Smosh, shooting videos for eight years... You just don't forget someone after you've worked with them for that long. Maybe you can say the same about Joshua or Sohinki."

The mention of Sohinki's name sent another flash of pain through David's heart, but he disregarded it. _Then why, Anthony, _he thought sadly, _did Ian hide for so long? What happened six years ago? _He swallowed. "Just...just promise you'll keep what I said in mind, okay?" he said.

Anthony shrugged. "I won't need it, but all right. I know you mean well."

David kept his gaze on the ground as he held Emily's little hands in his, preventing her from falling. Anthony had been through enough; he didn't need more despair in his life. But David had a feeling Ian had been through far more.

* * *

_May 3__rd__, 2014_

_ Ian heard the explosions, the shouts, the gunfire, but he didn't open his eyes._

_ He was lying on his side in his cell. The cell that had been his prison for...he could not say how long. It could have been years for all he knew. Time passed very irregularly when he could not tell night from day and spent his hours in agony. _

_ He kept his eyes shut. The noise was nothing. Someone may have been undergoing an experiment, or perhaps the Russians were having a disagreement. Or he was hallucinating. There was a very good chance it was the latter, because sometimes his dreams were so vivid and real that when he awoke to the darkness, Ian could never tell if they had been real in the first place – if being trapped and tortured within the prison was the dream and what he experienced in his sleep was reality. Ian focused on breathing. His lungs ached as he worked to draw breath. Focus on breathing, figure out if it's real or not..._

_ A gunshot far too close. Ian flinched in shock and opened his eyes at last, afraid that whatever was nearby was going to harm him; sounds close to him were never a good sign. They might mean that they were about to hurt him, to watch him scream as they laughed and laughed... Ian began to tremble._

_ Voices. Shouts. Ian tried to lie still, but he was shaking so badly that they would never think he was dead; yet it was all he could do. His trembling worsened when he heard the cell door open. "Who's this?" a husky voice hissed. "Should we take the poor bastard?"_

_ Ian felt his heart skip several beats. English...! They were speaking English, weren't they? He hadn't heard anything other than Russian in so long...he forced himself to pay attention, even with the panic and terror twisting into something terrible in his mind._

_ "I'm not sure." Someone grabbed Ian's shoulder and turned him over; he swallowed several times, his eyes darting from one blurry face to another. "He looks broken. The Russians might as well have killed this one. Leave him, I'd say."_

_ Leave him... The words very nearly sent him into a panic; Ian forced himself to move, to speak. To the men's surprise as much as his own, he grabbed the nearest man's ankle. "Don't," he gasped out – his throat was raw, his voice very nearly gone. "Don't – leave me here."_

_ He had said something very similar to someone else... Ian had to blink away the sudden wetness in his eyes._

_ The men glanced at each other. "How old are you?" one demanded._

_ Ian could not see how that mattered, but he tried to answer as best he could. "Twenty-six," he said after a moment's thought; he'd had his birthday while he was stuck in this hellhole._

_ "Do you know your way around a gun?"_

_ The words were spoken too quickly for his muddled mind to understand, and he fought to work through them. "Do I...I'm sorry, I don't..." _

_ One of the men made an impatient noise. "Leave him, dammit. We don't need someone to take care of."_

_ "Luke, there's no point in leaving him here when he might be able to help. He's young enough to be useful, I think. We'll take him with us." Ian searched for the voice of the person who had decided to save him. His vision was blurry and indistinct, but he saw hard dark eyes and straw-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail. The man looked down at him without much expression._

_ Another voice issued commands. "Check the bodies for any guns; I think most of the prisoners are dead anyway. Then let's get the fuck out of here before the Russians realize what we've done. I don't think they're all dead. Come on, kid."_

_ Ian was suddenly so relieved it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. It's over, he thought dully as they pulled him to his feet. It's over..._

* * *

April 10th, 2019

"_Fuck!_"

Ian threw the empty bottle against the wall. Broken glass littered the floor.

After a moment, John and Luke looked into the room. "What the hell is the matter with you?" snapped John. "You having some sort of crisis?"

_That little shit stole my watch, _Ian wanted to snarl. It was the only reminder he had of his old life, and now it was gone. "We might be getting visitors pretty soon," he said grimly. _And I don't fucking want to see them. I'd rather be back at that prison than see them again._

"Ah." John raised an eyebrow. "American?"

"Yes," he said.

"Hm. Should we just shoot them for you?"

Ian paused, considering his words. "Maybe," he said. _Then I won't have to see them at all. _"I might talk to them first...just to see what they want. But keep it in mind."

"If these friends of yours give away our location, Ian," Luke hissed in a warning tone, "we may have to shoot you, too." He was tall and thin-faced, with sneering eyes and lank dark hair.

Ian just looked at him. "They won't," he said, though he had no way of knowing that. He knew, however, that Luke did not need much of an excuse to kill him. Ian was the only one in the base aware that Luke was running a side enterprise – effectively taking money and guns away from the gunrunners Ian worked with.

He had found out accidentally not even a month ago, when he was out working on an assignment, and he just happened to see Luke make a deal with someone he had not been assigned. When Ian had confronted him, Luke was pissed he'd been found out. "We should have fucking left you there in that cell," he had snarled after the initial shouting.

Ian had agreed not to tell James about Luke's deception if Luke promised to allow Ian to work with him if James' enterprise ever collapsed. Luke hadn't been happy, but it was either that or get shot, and James would never stop asking questions if his best gunrunner suddenly turned up dead.

"All right," John said, "if you want them shot, I'll take care of it for you."

He swallowed a sigh. He had no idea what he wanted. "Thanks," said Ian.

John nodded once, and he and Luke left him alone.

Ian spent the next hour half in a panic and half in a fury. He destroyed a few more of his possessions, drank the miniscule remainder of vodka left in the bottle he kept in his room, and smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes, but he still could not calm his mind. It bounced back and forth, cruelly forcing him to remember the betrayal and despair as he lay bleeding on the street in LA, the months he spent in the prison, the last two words Anthony said to him: "_I'm sorry..._" Ian had never wanted to disappear from the world so badly.

By the time the worst of the panic had faded, he was leaning heavily against the counter in the kitchen, trying to figure out if he wanted to scream or cry. Every cupboard around him had been flung open as he frantically searched for another bottle of vodka. Even when he realized he was completely out, he still couldn't calm the storms in his mind. _All because I found out Anthony's going to find me, _he thought, hating himself. _Fuck. I'm so fucked up. _

It took another hour to decide that he couldn't calm down until he had a drink in his hand.

Ian was nervously smoking a cigarette when he emerged from his rooms. They had made their base in the ruins of an old apartment building. For three stories, the place was great, until one tried to go one floor farther and found open air and sky. A bomb had partially destroyed the top of the building, but had left the rest miraculously intact. It was as dangerous and unstable as the group of people living within, but it was safe and protected, as no one could enter or leave without going through the covered back doors. Ian had almost made it out of the base when James called to him from the lobby. Their boss was smoking a cigar and cleaning his silenced sub-machine gun, and he looked up at Ian through narrowed, dark eyes. James was just a few years older than him, always wore a high-collar jacket and his longish hair tied back, and was gaunt and worn in appearance. He was probably the only person in the world Ian still trusted. "You looked a bit stressed, Ian," he said in his raspy voice, looking at the cigarette in his hand. "I have a small assignment for you, if you are up to it."

He wondered if James somehow knew he had just smoked through half a pack and was on his way to get more vodka. "No, I can do it," he said. Anything to get his mind off of Anthony.

The guns had not yet arrived, but all he had to do was assemble and deliver them to a group of people they had worked with before. "The agreement was two hundred rubles," James told him, "and if they try to give you less, tell them we'll come after them, shoot them, and take all the money and guns they have. And if they say they'll simply shoot _you, _tell them we'll do that anyway, just with one less gunrunner."

Ian liked the way James handled business. "All right," he said with a small, grim smile. "I'll be back in a bit, but I'll take care of it when those guns get here."

He turned to leave. "Ian," James said, and he stopped. "Don't let those old friends of yours control you. You're one of us now, and they shouldn't still be influencing you after six years."

_It's not that simple, _Ian thought bitterly, but he appreciated James' words. "Thanks," he said quietly, without looking at him. "I'll...try to remember that."

He left the base feeling oddly guilty. James had noticed his distress and realized at once what was wrong; although, part of him wondered if their boss was just worried about losing his best gunrunner. Ian kept his head low as he walked through the crowded but silent gray city, toward the hidden market.

His thoughts wandered away from the conversation with James to what the fuck he was going to do about Anthony. He knew he could simply run away and hide until Anthony gave up and went home, but it seemed unlikely that Anthony would admit defeat after coming so close to finding him – and his comrades would not appreciate Anthony hanging around the base for that long. Then he remembered his first instinct had been to simply shoot him. Why the hell not? His former friend may as well have fired the shot that wounded him six years ago. He had left him to bleed to death on the streets of LA – it would be a cruel form of justice, and maybe even bring Ian some peace, if he just shot him as soon as Anthony saw the proof that Ian had not been killed. He had waited six years to take some form of revenge.

But Ian didn't much like that idea either.

When he arrived at the hidden market, a busy outfit situated in the remains of what had once been a parking garage, Ian still had no idea what to do. He forced the problem aside as he stopped beside the alcohol vendor and asked, in Russian, how much for a bottle of vodka.

The old man, who was missing an eye and sitting on a barrel, replied dully, "Fifty rubles." When Ian scowled, he added, "Or the pistol at your waist there."

The new currency was supposed to be Russian dollars, but it may as well have been guns.

Ian paid fifty rubles for the single bottle. The other gunrunners would be pissed at him for spending so much, but he could not recall a day he needed it more.

He took his time heading back to the base. He was angry, anxious, and above all, scared of what the next few hours would bring, the moment Anthony found him. Ian didn't know if he wanted to shoot him; but he was afraid that, if he did not, he would sink into another panic attack in front of the person who had condemned him all those years ago. He would _not _let Anthony see him like that. _Just shoot him, _a nagging voice at the back of his head urged him. _Just shoot him. It might bring you some form of peace. He deserves it, after he left you to die. _

But a part of him he couldn't explain told him that shooting Anthony wasn't the right answer. Anthony hadn't seen him in six years; he must have missed him, even if Ian didn't all that much. He wanted to check up on him, make sure he was doing all right, understand why Ian had kept himself hidden for so long, and above all, apologize. That had to be the reason for his visit, after all.

By the time Ian returned to the base, he had decided to simply see what Anthony had to say for himself and listen to the apology that was sure to come. After the betrayal six years ago, he _had _to have come to apologize at the very least. And hopefully Ian would not lose his head once he saw his old friend again. He didn't want to imagine his shame once Anthony saw, firsthand, how badly he had left him broken.

John was waiting for him in what had once been the lobby. "Three people have arrived, claiming they know you," he told him calmly. Ian felt his blood run cold. _No. No. Not yet, I'm not ready..._ "One tall guy, one stockier guy, and one little girl."

Ian nearly dropped the bottle. "A little girl?" he repeated incredulously. Holy fuck, Anthony brought the stupid _kid? _What the fuck was he thinking?

"Yeah," John said grimly. "Sure you don't just want to shoot them? I almost did, myself, but seeing the girl stopped me."

"That would be messy," Ian said, but his mind raced; he wasn't sure he could have shot the little girl either. It was bad enough that Anthony was here – had he brought the girl as a shield, so Ian wouldn't be tempted to just kill him as soon as he saw him? He grit his teeth. Six years later and Anthony was _still _fucking with him. Ian left the bottle of vodka within one of the cupboards they passed; he would undoubtedly need it later. "Where are they?"

"In the holding room," John said as he led him further into the building. "Which one do you want to see first?"

_Just fucking get it over with. _"Anthony," he said. It hurt his throat to say his name. But when John made a move toward the holding room, Ian said quickly: "Wait, just a moment." The very thought of what was about to happen had put his mind in a state of barely contained panic; suddenly he could remember all too clearly that night six years ago. The old wound in his chest throbbed. His hands were shaking as he fumbled for a cigarette; turning away so John would not see him almost lose himself, Ian lit it and took a long drag. The smoke was soothing, and it calmed his nerves just enough to prepare him. He was about to see the person who had caused him so much pain over the years; if Ian encountered any flashbacks, anything that made him look weak in front of Anthony, he would never forgive himself. "All right," he said quietly.

Ian kept his gaze on the dirty concrete floor when a very familiar figure walked slowly into view. He didn't look at him, didn't react to the sharp intake of breath, and when Anthony hurried forward and said, "Ian?" he was taking another drag on the cigarette. "Holy shit. Holy shit."

Anthony made a move as though he wanted to hug him, but something made him stop, and he just looked at him instead. Ian let him look at him. He had no idea what he might have done if Anthony tried to touch him – he could only imagine that the other man would have ended up on the floor, bleeding. His heart pounded in his ears, and he felt very forced himself to meet Anthony's gaze with indifferent eyes. "What do you want?" he said finally, his voice icy. He blinked once. Suddenly his mind was alight with screams and splatters of blood – his pulse quickened, fear grasped his heart, and Ian blinked again. The images were gone, but the terror remained. It was almost painful to keep his face impassive. _Keep it together...don't let him see how fucked up I am – _

Anthony blinked at him. Somewhere beneath the shock of discovering his friend was still alive, there was surprise at Ian's tone. "Where have you been? Why didn't you contact us for so long?" Ian eyed him without much concern. He was entirely the same person; he was older, yes, but not much had changed. He was the same man he had known since he was eleven years old, yet a despair twisted his heart when he met his dark eyes, a hatred he had kept buried for the past six years. Ian hated everything about him when he spoke. "I – I thought you were dead, Ian."

"I almost was." Smoke wafted from his mouth as he talked. It was becoming harder to quiet the memories. They had never been so loud. "What do you want, then, dammit? Money? Food?" _Apologize, _a small voice in the back of his head begged, _apologize for what you did, say you made a mistake, that you were scared, that you were a fucking coward...just tell me the truth. Do the right thing, damn it. _

Anthony didn't answer for a moment. "N-no," he said quietly. "I...I came to ask for help."

The word resonated in his head. For a moment Ian was so stunned he could only manage one word. "Help," he repeated. He didn't know how to explain to him everything that was wrong with what he was saying. Help. _Where was the help from you when I was lying bleeding on the sidewalk? _Ian thought bitterly.

His former friend wrung his hands. "Yes. Yes. Kalel's been taken, Ian. I don't know who else to turn to, but when I heard you were still alive, and working with these people, I thought maybe...you could help me get her back."

He just looked at him. "You're asking _me_ for help," he said slowly, as though trying to understand. The shock had broken through the haze of horrifying memories; for a moment, just a moment, they were silent, though flashes of images flickered across his mind once in a while.

Anthony clenched his jaw. "Yes! Please. I was hoping...I was hoping you would."

Ian stared at the man who had once been his best friend. He could not have imagined what his face looked like, but he hoped it was neutral, despite the fury and terror twisting his mind. Ian wanted to just start shouting at him, to make him understand. _Why the fuck didn't you help me when I was dying on the side of the road in LA? I'm not helping you. Forget it. Have you forgotten what you did to me six years ago?_

But he said none of that. He felt oddly cold when he met Anthony's gaze. He couldn't answer him – he had no idea what to say. "Why the fuck did you bring your kid here?" he demanded.

Anthony drew back and scowled. "There was no one to leave her with at home. Everyone was busy." He paused, and added, "Do you want to meet her?"

"No, I don't want to fucking meet her," he snapped. "You should have just left the stupid kid there."

His old friend was silent for a moment. Ian tried to read him, tried to understand what was going through his mind, but not only did Ian not care very much, Anthony looked so stunned he was almost devoid of expression. "What _happened _to you?" he said at last. "The others were right. You're not the same person."

"Well spotted," Ian snarled.

Anthony took a step forward, his fists clenched. Ian instinctively reached for the gun in his jacket, but he didn't draw it. He heard Anthony's voice echo in his head: _"I'm sorry._.." Both fear and anger had him nearly shaking, but Anthony was blind to the memories afflicting him. "Answer me, dammit. I need help, you might be the only one I can turn to. Help me get Kalel back. Please."

"I don't remember you helping me when I was shot in LA," Ian snapped. "How can you expect me to help you now?"

The older man flinched as though Ian had struck him. "Is that what this is about?" Anthony shook his head, and Ian's rage twisted his thoughts; his hand had closed around the gun and he listened to the blood pounding in his ears. "I didn't mean for it to happen like that. I had Kalel safe, I was safe – I couldn't risk going out again, not when there were Russians looking for any Americans to shoot."

"You left me to die," said Ian, his voice low and cold.

"You seem to have made it out," Anthony snapped.

Ian narrowed his eyes. Anger rendered him mute; it was like a seething, almost painful knot of fire in his heart. _Yes, I made it out, damn it, but at what cost? You have no idea what I went through in that prison. _How could Anthony dismiss what had happened so easily? Was he covering his own ass, trying to downplay the incident so Ian would help him rescue Kalel? _My memory works just fine, you asshole. I remember what you did._

Anthony was watching him, his arms crossed. "Look," he said when Ian said nothing more. "I'm glad you made it out of LA. I'm glad we discovered you're still alive – I wish you'd told us that six years ago, but I get that you were mad. I wish it hadn't happened like that. I really do." He swallowed, then added: "I'm willing to put what happened behind us. I'll forget that you led us to believe you were dead for six years – I'm happy to see you alive and well now."

Ian very nearly shot him right there and then, so absolute was his fury. So Anthony believed he had more of a right to be angry, did he? He really believed he was the one who had been wronged because Ian refused to contact them for so long. He had absolutely no idea what this betrayal had cost Ian. Ian's fingers were tight around the gun in his jacket. He did not know what was stopping him from drawing and aiming it.

Anthony took a step forward. Ian would have struck him if he moved any closer. "But Kalel's my wife now. I need her back, our daughter needs her back – I can't go on without her, not in this new world, without her to support me."

There was a pause. Ian looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time. He could see the desperation in his eyes; he had the face of someone who had very nearly lost everything. Ian had seen too many people with that look nowadays, and most of them were the desperate people he scammed money and guns off of. Desperate people made mistakes, often were not thinking clearly – and were easy to scam. No wonder Anthony so easily disregarded what had happened; losing Kalel had broken some part of his sanity.

But even upon learning that Ian was still alive, Anthony had not arrived simply to check up on him, to see how he was doing after all these years as Ian had thought, not even to simply apologize. No, he wanted something from him – the aide Anthony had failed to provide to Ian six years ago. _How _could Anthony think he would be ready and willing to help him now?

A million furious thoughts ran through Ian's mind at once, but he settled on none of them, instead preparing his answer. He turned away. "I'll...think about it," he said. He knew he was being maddening, but Anthony did not understand how changed he was, how hurt the betrayal had left him.

And indeed, Anthony's face contorted into a snarl. "You'll _think _about it?" he repeated vehemently. "Kalel could be dead by the time you make up your mind!"

"Then you shouldn't have put your faith in me," Ian said coldly.

For a moment, Anthony looked so furious Ian wondered if he was going to strike him. Through gritted teeth, he growled, "You better make up your fucking mind fast. What the hell do they want with her, anyway?"

Ian shrugged, indifferent to Kalel's fate. "She will be held at a prison while they decide what to do with her. She'll probably end up being sold into some sort of slavery, either manual labor or...other services." It took effort to keep his face impassive when the color drained from Anthony's face.

"Fucking hell, how can you care so little?" he demanded.

"Easy," he said coldly. "You shouldn't have let her run around LA by herself, which is how I assume she was taken."  
"It didn't happen like that," snapped Anthony, but he couldn't have cared less.

"Who else came with you?" Ian asked, ignoring this; he wanted to know who was the stocky man his coworkers had described.

Anthony scowled. "David," he said. "Joshua couldn't, because he had duties at the hospital."

It took Ian a moment to remember who David was. It had been easier to keep their names straight when Joshua was listing them one by one; and, indeed, they very rarely used their real names back in their old lives. "Lasercorn," he said slowly.

"Well, no one's called me that in years," said a familiar voice, "but yeah."

Both of them turned to find David walking a few paces from the holding room. "Emily is asking for you, Anthony," he said. The older man gave Ian a nod. "Hey, Ian. Good to see you again."

He had nothing against David. "You, too," he said gruffly. Ian looked to Anthony, who was seething and glaring and torn between continuing his argument or seeing to his daughter. It wasn't often he saw something so pitiful. "I want my fucking watch back," Ian told him.

Anthony dug in his pocket and threw it at him. Then he turned and headed toward the holding room without another word.

The memories nagging at him quieted somewhat. Ian and David looked at each other. Ian thought he looked well, despite the horrors of the last few years; there were circles under his eyes, and an air of sadness that never seemed to leave, but he still looked like the old Lasercorn. "I can't believe you're alive, Ian. I'm glad we finally found you. Though I wish the circumstances were different," David added sadly.

Ian wished he really had died six years ago so he wouldn't have had to go through that. He opened his mouth to give a retort David did not deserve, but the older man spoke first.

"So. I'm not going to ask you where you've been or why you didn't contact us – I imagine you covered that with Anthony, and you probably had your reasons. Just thought you should know that we all did miss you a lot, and I wish things had happened much differently. Our little group was never quite the same without you." David looked at him. There was a sincerity to his features Ian rarely saw back in the days they worked together.

Suddenly he was very thankful David had tagged along. No one had been that genuine with him since his life had turned to hell. It wasn't as easy for him to express that appreciation, however. "Yeah...thanks," Ian said, dropping his gaze. He swallowed, and asked, "How did you know where to find me?"

"Well, I was once selling some old guns of mine when the gunrunner had to make a break for this old broken building; some sort of emergency I guess, but I figured it must have been your base." As Ian scowled, knowing it had been Luke who had been that careless, David added, "Your group is rather notorious where we come from, Ian."

He shrugged, feeling suddenly defensive. "We just try to survive," he said.

David watched him carefully. "Did you hear about Sohinki?"

"Yes," he said. "Joven told me. And about Mari. And your – your family. I'm sorry, David."

The despondency clinging to his old friend's poise had never been more apparent. The other man's face fell. "Yes, well. It's not as though they're gone, at least I don't think they are. I might see them again." He raised his eyes and looked at Ian critically. "You know, Joven was wrong when he said you wouldn't want to see us again. I don't think you're totally lost. I mean, you haven't tried to shoot us yet."

Even Ian had to grin at that. "Thanks," he said dryly.

Anthony emerged from the holding room, but he did not bring his daughter. His eyes were steely when he locked eyes with Ian, and he felt a strange sense of satisfaction – at last, he finally understood. "So I guess we're waiting until you give us your answer, then?" he snapped.

"You might be waiting a while," Ian said, and he smirked at Anthony's obvious irritation. His former friend looked as though he had half a mind to argue when John walked up to Ian and said, "James told me to give you these."

The guns had arrived. His friends watched in stunned silence as Ian took the briefcase from John, opened it, and sat at the coffee table to assemble the guns within. The storms in his mind had quieted somewhat. Maybe, _maybe, _he would be all right...maybe he could really deal with this. It was a pathetic wish, he knew, but for someone who spent almost every night so drunk he had lost all sense of awareness, Ian thought he had handled the reunion well enough.

"Ian?" Against his better judgment, Ian looked at his old friend through narrowed eyes. "I get that you're not telling us your story completely. That's fine. Whatever. But answer this: where's Melanie?"

And just like that, the cold returned, encasing his heart in ice. Every time he blinked, he saw flashes of memory, each more horrifying than the last. Ian was shaking when he reached instinctively for another cigarette. He lit it. He hoped Anthony and David couldn't see his hands trembling.

"Where's Melanie?" Anthony repeated, his voice eerily calm.

He put his lighter away. He was proud of himself for keeping his voice even. "You can stay in the third floor room on the right. And I'll give you my answer...soon."

* * *

A/N: You guys can probably start making a few inferences...

Guess what? I already have most of the next _two _chapters written. Yay! I hope I actually have time to edit them and don't end up drowning in schoolwork again.

Next time: Drama when Ian meets Emily Padilla for the first time. I _hope _it'll be up later this week.

Thanks for reading guys! Let me know what you think! :)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: So much Anthony hate..I mean yeah, Anthony is being pretty unreasonable &amp; insensitive, but Ian's not entirely blameless either. It really wasn't fair for him to keep Anthony in the dark for so long when he knew Anthony would miss him, &amp; Ian's done some pretty terrible things in the time they were apart. Anyway I'm going to _try _to make Anthony a little more likeable in the coming chapters (not this one, though xD) but it might be a lost cause, haha.

Okay. This chapter and the next are pretty short &amp; mostly focus on character development, so they'll be posted within days of each other.

Have some more drama.

* * *

It was very late when Ian returned to the base.

He had just finished the transaction James had assigned to him that afternoon, and all things considered, it had gone quite smoothly – no one had died and all the rubles were accounted for. It was a rare thing indeed when not a single shot had been fired, there were no injuries, and he was paid exactly what he had been promised. Good for the enterprise, perhaps, but after the tension and, Ian shamefully would admit, _fear _he experienced earlier that evening during the ill-fated reunion,he was almost looking for a fight. Anything to get his mind off of Anthony, his nonexistent apology, and his request for help.

Ian had thought Anthony would apologize the moment he laid eyes on him, to ask for forgiveness after the incident six years ago. But instead Anthony had dismissed it as though nothing more than an argument had occurred – as though he _hadn't _left Ian bleeding and dying on the streets of LA, and he fully expected Ian to get over it and move on. It was another blow to his already broken sense of trust.

_I should have expected it, _Ian thought bitterly as he climbed the stairs to his room. _Anthony never cared much about what happened to me. _He couldn't believe he had put so much faith in the idea that Anthony would apologize – why the fuck would he do that when he didn't even think he had wronged him? _I should have just shot him, _he thought, _I should have just aimed the gun and shot him, maybe it would have brought me some sense of peace, maybe I wouldn't be so fucked up if I'd just killed him. _But...in the midst of flashbacks and terror, a gunshot would be the last thing he needed to hear. So he hadn't done it. He'd left the person he hated most in the world alive, when he had killed Russians for far more trivial reasons.

He had never hated himself more as he walked through the third floor hall. Voices drew his thoughts away from the grim reality of what he had become, and Ian looked toward the first door on the right, where those staying inside had left it open an inch. He moved closer, listening.

"He's a gunrunner, Anthony. You want Kalel back, give him what he wants – guns."

"We shouldn't _have _to bribe him," came Anthony's angry voice. Ian smirked, happy that he was pissed. "He's still my best friend. He should be willing to help me no matter what."

Anthony's presumption had him seething, but he was surprised when David said, "He won't, Anthony. He's still angry, and he's held onto that anger for six years. Do you really think he's just going to forget what happened if you suddenly just show up and ask him to help you?"

Anthony made an impatient noise. "It happened six years ago. I didn't want to leave him there, but the circumstances were complicated – I couldn't just leave Kalel when it was still chaos outside."

_It wasn't, Anthony, _Ian thought, and he was listening to the gunshots and screams in the back of his mind. _When I called you, the Russians were gone...and you still wouldn't help me. _He didn't know whether to burst in and shoot Anthony for his betrayal, or hurry and find the nearest bottle of vodka to keep the memories and fury away. He heard David sigh. "I'm trying to make you understand why he won't help you. And I did warn you, you know."

"I never expected him to still be mad," Anthony admitted in a small voice.

Ian had heard enough. He backed away from the door. He remembered that he had left that bottle of vodka downstairs in the lobby – he would probably need all of it after what he had just heard. Ian hurried downstairs, found the alcohol, and didn't bother returning to his room. He sat in the armchair in the lobby and drank heavily. Part of him couldn't believe he had made it through the day without a full bottle of alcohol. He'd just met up with Anthony again, the person who had fucked up his life so badly, and the memories had become louder and more terrifying than ever before. Even with a drink in hand, he was thrown back and forth between past and present, unable to stop the flow of images from corrupting his senses.

He continued to drink. Anthony's last words echoed in his mind: "_I'm sorry, Ian._" He drank more. He heard the report of the bullet that had struck him, remembered fumbling for his phone, not knowing that it was useless, that the person he had decided to call would not help him, would leave him there. He raised the bottle to his lips once again. He heard the Russians mulling over whether or not to take him with them, remembering he had thought maybe _they _would help him, maybe they would patch him up and try to save him...instead they brought him to a that fucking prison hellhole. He still had too much vodka left. He drank, fighting to keep himself in reality.

He couldn't say how much time had passed when he finally fell asleep. During his panic, when he would completely lose himself, time passed about as irregularly as it had when he was stuck in the prison. He slept very lightly, as he always did during episodes such as these, and Ian blinked himself awake when he realized someone was watching him. With blurry, drunken vision, he first saw a pair of rounded, dark blue eyes, and for a moment he thought that Kalel had rescued herself. But then the world shifted into focus, and he found himself staring at a little girl. She stood nervously beside his armchair, simply watching him, biting her lip as though working up the courage to speak.

He knew who she was. And he hated her for it. "What are you doing here?" he said gruffly.

She rocked on her heels. "I just wanted to meet you," she said softly. Ian eyed her warily. Had Anthony sent her down here to try and reason with him? He reached for the bottle of vodka once more and took a generous gulp. "Does that taste good?" the girl asked, nodding toward the bottle.

He swallowed. "Not really, no," he said.

"Why do you drink it, then?"

Ian's mouth twisted into a cold smile. "It helps me forget," he said with complete honesty.

Emily Padilla frowned. She was an eerie mix of both Anthony and Kalel, Ian noted vaguely. Two people who'd made the most of this fucked up world, living together, supporting each other and simply being there. Whereas Ian had been imprisoned, lost everything, been homeless a few times, and needed alcohol every day to try and forget all that had happened to him. And sometimes there was no escaping the memories. "My dad says you shouldn't drink that stuff," she said after a moment. She was rocking nervously on her heels.

"Really?" Ian smirked. He tilted his head, considering his next words. "What does your dad say about me?"

She blinked at him. "Well...he says you're his best friend."

There was no humor in his laugh. "His best friend," he repeated, mostly to himself. "He _was _my best friend. If the situations had been reversed, do you think I would have left _him _there?" Emily blinked at him, having no idea what he was talking about. "I wouldn't have. I would have tried to save him, dammit." Ian took another drink, watching Emily closely. "What else has he told you about me?"

"Well...you used to work together. My dad says you made funny videos." She was eyeing him too, studying him; Ian wondered why the hell she had sought him out. Why wasn't her idiot of a father searching for her?

"That was a long time ago," Ian said gruffly. He barely remembered his previous life. "What does he say about me _now?_"

Emily blinked, her eyes darting around nervously. "He says...you're a lot different." She swallowed. "I think he said you've lost your mind."

Ian just looked at her. Part of him was utterly certain he had lost his mind; his soul had been broken and twisted, and he was a shell of the person he used to be. But he would not have lost himself so badly had Anthony not left him to die six years ago. "He may be right," he said in a deadly calm voice. Rage twisted his heart, and suddenly he hated her and the two people who had brought her into this world. "Did your dad ever tell you that he left me bleeding in a street in LA?" The girl's eyes widened, and she shook her head. "I didn't think so. I got shot. I asked him to help me, and he left me there. I was as good as dead thanks to him."

She swallowed. Her eyes darted to the floor. "M-my dad says you're gonna help me get my mom back," she stammered.

His laugh was cruel. "I'll do that when I have my fucking life back."

Emily could not have been older than six, but she recognized a swear word when she heard it. She shrank away from him. "That's not a nice thing to say," she said quietly.

"No, it isn't," Ian agreed. "But that's what your dad did. Anthony doesn't care; he didn't care about me then and he doesn't care now. All he wants is his Kalel safe and sound." He fished in his pocket for a cigarette and placed one between his teeth. He lit it, taking a drag. "And he expects me, the person whose life he fucked up, to just be ready and willing to help him. Anthony might have forgotten what happened, but I fucking didn't." He looked at the scared blue eyes watching him, and his rage twisted into something cruel. Ian leaned closer to her. His voice was sharp and harsh. "Tell your dad that I'm not fucking inclined to help someone who did that to me. Remind him what he did." His smile was twisted and bitter. "I lost everything because of him. So go on, tell him that."

Emily Padilla backed away. "You're...you're supposed to help me get my mom back," she repeated in a small voice.

Ian reached for the bottle of vodka. "Do you think that's likely?" he said coldly.

The little girl bounded away with a choked sob. Ian drank heavily. The memories were loud, contorting his vision, sending him back to the horrors six years ago. He tried to forget. He had to forget. He drank until the bottle was almost empty.

If he blinked once, he saw blood and darkness, heard screams of pain and terror, heard his own cries of despair. Another blink sent him back to his grim reality. Ian clenched the neck of the bottle. He wished he had more.

* * *

"_Ian!_"

Ian jerked awake, the angry voice startling him back into the waking world. The bottle of vodka tipped precariously in his hand and he hastened to straighten it. He couldn't remember what he had done to piss someone off that badly, and despite the alcohol in his system, he tried to think. The voice shouted again, and he realized belatedly that it was Anthony. He almost groaned. Realizing the danger, however nonthreatening it seemed to him, he set the footrest of the armchair down and hid the bottle on the other side of the chair. Yes, he had definitely deserved Anthony's anger after what he had said to his daughter.

He could hear Anthony's footsteps drawing nearer. The door flung open.

"God dammit, Ian!" the other man snapped. "What the fuck did you say to my kid?"

Ian regarded him calmly. His old friend's posture was hunched and his hands had balled into fists. Compared to the Russians and angry gun dealers Ian had grown used to dealing with, Anthony didn't seem all that threatening. "I don't really remember," he said, trying to keep the slur out of his voice. He suddenly regretted drinking so much.

Anthony strode over to him. His face was white with rage. Ian swallowed a sigh and stood too. He very much wished the other man was not there. He had just wanted to sleep. Sleep, drink a lot, and forget. "Did you really tell her what happened six years ago?" Anthony growled.

He crossed his arms, fixing Anthony with a derisive gaze. He was already bored with his old friend's anger. "Oh, that. You mean the truth? I guess I may have."

Anthony seized his collar. He was gritting his teeth and his eyes were wide with anger. "She doesn't need to know about that," he snarled. "Do you really think a five-year-old needs to know about people getting shot and –"

"Like I was?" Ian interrupted. He wished Anthony would let go of the collar of his shirt. It dug painfully into the back of his neck. Memories nagged at him, but they were almost completely muted by the alcohol.

Anthony's eyes flashed. "That's completely different," he growled. "It was under different circumstances, I had no choice but to stay where I was - "

"No, you didn't," Ian said coldly, but his former friend ignored him.

His words came out quick and furious. "You can't go around telling lies to my kid, next time she wanders out here just bring her back -"

"What's wrong with the truth? Did you lie to her all these years?"

"She doesn't need to know –"

"What are you going to do when the Russians discover her and attack? Are you going to leave her bleeding on the side of the road too?"

Anthony pulled back his fist and punched him. Ian fell backwards over the coffee table, landing painfully on the hard floor. His head rang and his lip was stinging painfully. He raised a hand to his mouth. It came away bloody. There was a moment of tense silence.

He looked up at Anthony. His former friend's jaw was clenched, and he rubbed at his fist.

"Never," he snarled, "talk to Emily again."

Anthony turned to the door, but he was not yet done.

"And I know you've been drinking! I can smell it – here it is –"

Ian watched him pick up his bottle of vodka from the foot of the chair. His heart sank as Anthony made toward the door with it in hand. The man who had once been his best friend sent him a glance full of loathing.

"Yeah, I think you've had enough. See you tomorrow."

Anthony slammed the door behind him.

Ian closed his eyes and waited for his head to stop ringing. He felt numb, hurt, and oddly guilty – he _had _deserved the punch. Even he would admit that. No matter their issues from years ago, Anthony had not deserved to have his daughter threatened. _Or maybe I'm so fucked up I can't tell right from wrong anymore, _he thought bitterly. Ian slowly picked himself off the floor, using the arm of the chair to help him up as his head spun from the blow and the alcohol.

Anthony would probably try to apologize to him tomorrow. Hitting him had added to the many things Anthony owed him. He certainly hadn't helped his case, either, if he wanted Ian's help rescuing Kalel. Ian was probably the only one with the connections and expertise needed to save her, and Anthony had just punched him in the face.

Ian very much wished Anthony had at least left the vodka. He staggered to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and looked in the mirror. His lip was split and blood trailed down his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, too, from the alcohol and lack of sleep. He did not look like the person Anthony remembered at all. Had it really just been six years ago that he was filming Smosh and hanging out at SmoshGames? Time had made him bitter and unrecognizable.

He held the sleeve of his jacket to his mouth as he made his way back to the armchair. Memories were coming back again and he had nothing to quiet them. Anthony didn't understand why he needed the alcohol, and he certainly wasn't about to explain it to him. Ian closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he couldn't keep the memories quiet.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, nice job, Anthony.

I feel like I should apologize for the next chapter in advance xD It's going to be a _huge _feels train. Probably one of the saddest chapters I've ever written. I hope you guys are ready lol.

Thanks for reading guys, &amp; for supporting this fic :D I really appreciate it!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Dammit. I know I said I would update this a couple days after chapter 5 was posted, but school got crazy. I had two tests, two programs, &amp; I had to get ready to go home for the weekend. I finished this chapter on the bus ride home lol. Sooo glad to be back, but it's just for the weekend.

Anyway. This chapter is extremely sad &amp; contains maybe sensitive material. This is another chapter I feel pretty bad about making you guys read lol.

Enjoy :)

* * *

_May 23__rd__, 2014_

_ "So. Do you have friends? Family? Someone you probably want to get a hold of?"_

_ Friends. Ian dropped his gaze to the floor of the hotel lobby, suddenly unable to meet James' eyes. His thoughts immediately went past Anthony and to the other four, but if not even his best friend would help him, what were they to him? Ian sat there silently, unsure of what to tell him. He had never felt so alone. _

_ It had been almost three weeks since they had rescued him from the prison. Ian spent his time recovering and trying to ignore the nightmares. His time in prison had left his body a wreck; he had lost far too much weight and his injuries were painful but healing, the gunshot in his chest finally healing properly. He spoke very little – when he realized what had happened to the country since the takeover, how bleak and chaotic everything had become, that his friends had to have thought he was dead, he became almost mute. He kept to himself within the temporary base, which had apparently been a hotel at some point, trying to stay out of the gunrunners' way and attempting to work through the mess of anger and terror clouding his mind. _

_ He didn't have friends, and his family was out of reach. And Melanie had been in Sacramento when the Russians had taken over. She would be safe, away from the conflict. He swallowed hard and shook his head. There was no one he wanted to see._

_ James watched him for a moment, but he was called away, leaving Ian to his fragmented, despondent thoughts. He had nothing – he was a broken shell of the person he used to be, worn and shattered from his time in prison and Anthony's betrayal. What the fuck was he going to do now? _

_ James returned a moment later with something in hand. "Is this yours?"_

_ It was a phone – and, indeed, the same phone he had used to call...his best friend. It hurt to even think his name. Ian took it and saw that it had been charged. "How did you get this?" he asked quietly. His voice was hoarse from lack of use._

_ "The Russians kept a stock of the stuff they took from the prisoners. We took all of it, found some useful things. A lot of phones, though. We just got enough power to charge them."  
_

_He turned the phone on with icy, shaking fingers. It had no service, of course, but it had somehow kept track of the last few calls and text messages he received. His blood ran cold when he saw they were from Melanie. He read through the texts and his trembling worsened. "Ian," the first one read, "I don't know what's happening, but some shit's going down where you are. I can't get ahold of you or Anthony. I'm starting to freak out. Please call me."_

_ The second was much shorter, but straight to the point. "I'm really worried. Please answer."_

_ By the third message, his heart was pounding painfully. "I don't know what's happened, but I'm going to LA to find you. If you get this, Ian, I'll be at Katie's house."  
_

_I'm going to LA to find you... Ian felt horribly numb when he lowered the phone. He thought that Melanie had been safe and out of reach in Sacramento, but when Ian had failed to answer her, she willingly went to LA to search for him – right in the thick of the chaos. He should have known she would do that for him. He wished he had used the last of his phone's battery to tell her to stay put instead of calling Anthony. _

_ He had to get to her. It took a few moments of searching around his clouded, muddled memory to remember where her friend Katie lived, but eventually Ian knew enough to ask the gunrunners how he could get to it from where they were hidden. James glanced at Luke, who was looking up from checking his own phone. Ian didn't like the look in their eyes at all. "That area's been quarantined," their leader said slowly. "They...they planned to exterminate everyone in the neighborhood."_

_ For a moment, Ian was not sure what he had said. It didn't make sense – exterminate meant kill, after all, and why would the Russians bother to harm civilians? But as the last six months played in his head, reminding him what their conquerors were capable of, his lungs tightened with fear and his pulse quickened. It was suddenly hard to breathe. "I need to get there," he said in a hollow voice. "Now. Please."_

_ They told him the best way to get to the neighborhood. They also told him there was no point. But Ian was beyond listening; he was there as soon as his weak, recovering body would allow him. It took him far too long and he was out of breath too many times for someone his age, but eventually, he found it._

_ Ian should have known he would be too late._

_ The neighborhood had been gated off, but he found a way around. There were trucks driving along the streets, patrolling – Ian had an idea of what they were looking for, so he hid from them. But when he came upon the correct house, someone was just leaving. Ian did not see his face, but he would never forget that the man's shoes tracked blood all the way to the sidewalk. He caught a glimpse of a large frame and one arm with a tattoo of a Siberian tiger._

_ The truck began to drive away. Ian was in a panic – it was so hard to wait until the truck was completely out of sight, but somehow he managed it. He ran for the house. He remembered almost stumbling, staggering, so frantic was he to reach it. They had left the door unlocked._

_ He had known what he would find, but seeing it shattered him. Blood caked the hardwood floors, making the room slick and smell coppery. One dark-haired girl lay in a pool of blood, her throat slashed. And beside her, lying on her stomach, was a young woman with wavy blond hair. _

_ Ian did not remember much of what happened after he saw her. He recalled turning her around, holding her, even as he lifeless eyes stared through him, seeing nothing, and her blood stained his clothes. He was sure he had been crying, yelling something that made no sense; perhaps saying nothing at all. It had been less painful wasting away in that prison. In his arms was the one thing keep him together, and now she was cold with death. He had finally lost everything. _

* * *

April 11th, 2019

Ian caught a bus and made his way across the city at the crack of dawn.

It was the best time to travel. Not even their conquerors liked to be up this early. The streets were clear, the explosions and gunshots were few and far between, and the dystopian city was suddenly so peaceful it was as though he had left Anaheim and found somewhere much more tranquil.

But he couldn't appreciate it much.

When his stop came around, the bus driver said good-bye to him. He'd taken this route so many times that even the driver knew him; though he never found out why Ian always disembarked at this stop, in the outskirts of what had once been a busy neighborhood. It was barren, ashy, and abandoned now. Some of the barricades were still standing. Ian walked the usual two blocks north, three blocks east, his mind strangely blank for the first time that week. Not even the trouble with Anthony could bother him now, not where he was going.

He found the backyard he was looking for and let himself through the gate. He walked to the corner of the yard, where a tombstone lay.

Ian brushed aside the leaves and rubbish that had fallen on her grave. He knelt beside it, looking over the mound of dirt without really seeing it. She had not deserved to be buried in this shitty little backyard, but Ian might have been shot trying to bury her elsewhere, and this location ensured that he could visit whenever he wanted. He folded his hands in his lap, his head bowed, as though praying, but his emotions were suddenly so twisted, he could not move.

He swallowed several times before speaking. "I'm sorry it's been a while," he told the mound of dirt. "I meant to visit you sooner, but...well, work got in the way, as it usually does. Among other things." He paused, not quite ready to tell her the reason for his visit yet. "It's your birthday tomorrow," Ian continued with a sad smile. "If I have my months and days right, that is. I don't know if I can visit you exactly on the twelfth, but I will try. If I don't...Happy birthday, Melanie."

For a moment, he lost the ability to speak. He had to swallow several times before he could continue.

"I can't pretend that I didn't come here for comfort, either, Mel. Something's happened, something I've been dreading for years...they've found me." He closed his eyes. "I've known it would happen. Anthony finally found me. He knows...well, almost everything."

A breeze blew by, rustling his hair. Ian laid a hand on the gravestone, fighting to speak through the lump in his throat.

"He wants me to help him. Kalel's been taken, or something, by the Russians. If she's not dead already, Anthony wants me to help him bring her back. But I can't..." He shook his head, wishing he had a cigarette. "I _can't _forget what happened, Mel. I just can't. He left me to die. You, too. He knew I was gone, or he thought he did, and he did nothing to protect you." Ian began to tremble, and he had to shake aside terrible memories before he could continue. "I shouldn't help him. I should let Kalel die just like he let you die. It would be a fair trade." He closed his eyes again, hating himself. "But that wouldn't be right, either."

He opened his eyes and looked at the gravestone. Wished so dearly that it would answer him. But it, and the city around him, was silent and grim.

"I wish you were here to tell me what to do, Mel. Hell, if you were, I probably wouldn't be so fucked up. You would hate to see me the way I am now." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry about that...I haven't been taking care of myself, but I don't give a damn anymore. It's been so long since I've seen you, Melanie. My drinking will kill me anyway if I don't slow down, but if I do decide to go on this next mission and rescue Kalel, I almost hope it'll be my last. I don't want to go on like this anymore."

Ian tried to imagine what she would say to that. But it was getting harder and harder to even picture her face.

"Maybe I'll get to see you again sooner than I thought," he said with a small smile. "There's nothing in this world left for me. I'm done with it." He closed his eyes briefly and bowed his head. "I thought you would want to know...Mari is in the hospital, Mel. She was attacked and she's been in a coma for three years. I remember how close you two were." He shook his head. "I regret a lot of things, but maybe that most of all. I should have been there. I should have protected her from whatever was trying to hurt her. Instead I was hiding in Anaheim, too pissed at Anthony to bother letting them know I was still alive."

He didn't have to imagine what Melanie would say to this; he already knew.

"You would want me to help her, wouldn't you? Forget everything and just try to help Mari." But he shook his head. "She's in a coma, and she might never recover. I don't know if I could dedicate so much time to protecting someone who might never wake up. And she's got people watching her. Joshua's there all the time, apparently. He works in the same hospital." He swallowed hard. "If she ever wakes up, I'll be there for her. But not now."

He was silent for a long time. Ian watched a tiny gap in the gray sky, a speck of blue peeking out amidst the thick silver. It was a miracle; there had not been enough explosions or fires recently to keep it completely gray. He had not seen blue sky in months, it had seemed. Perhaps the war was finally dying down. But Ian remembered thinking that many times before. Without a doubt, one side would do something to stir things up, and things would begin again. He turned his gaze to the still grave before him.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Melanie. Anthony...He didn't apologize. He doesn't think what he did was wrong at all. I think losing Kalel has messed with him, but...if he'd just apologized, it would have helped. It would have fixed some part of me that's broken because of what he did, and I would have been more inclined to help him. I don't know, Mel. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'll think about it for a while on my way back to the base, but I really can't see myself helping Anthony. I can't, after what he did. I just can't forget it, or forgive him." He closed his eyes briefly. "I know you would hate that. I know you believed in second chances. But this...I don't think I can forget."

He stayed there as long as he dared. It was the only place the memories and flashbacks couldn't touch him, where they suddenly lost their power to hurt him. Ian had begun talking to the grave shortly after he began work as a gunrunner. He felt a bit stupid at first, but he could not deny that it had helped – after speaking with her, he always found the storms in his mind were calmed, and just for a little while, he wasn't as broken. He sat there, his eyes closed and his heart hollow, wishing things had happened differently, and that he had arrived in time to save her.

Ian opened his eyes. It was time he dealt with Anthony instead of just drinking and running away from his problems. Talking to her had helped, as he knew it would, and Ian had his answer at last. He was going to give Anthony the same help his best friend had given him – Kalel could stay where she was.

* * *

A/N: Hmmm. How is Anthony going to convince Ian to help him now?

Also, is it any wonder Ian drinks xD This chapter was so hard to write. I like Melanie a lot lol so it hurt to do that.

Next time: Enough of this drama/emotional stuff. Next chapter actually has action &amp; plot lol :D I hope I can get it posted soon.

Thanks for reading! :)


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: What an awesome week for the Smosh fandom :D I haven't played Food Battle: The Game yet because my phone can't handle it lol but I heard it's awesome! Can't wait to try it out.

So; this chapter has three POV changes, the last flashback for a while, &amp; lots of drama &amp; violence lol. Writing this reminded me a lot of my Outlast days, haha. Good times.

Enjoy, &amp; happy nine years of Smosh.

* * *

"_There_ you are."

Anthony hadn't meant to welcome Ian back with quite so much venom in his voice, but his patience was wearing very thin. His former friend barely glanced up as he eyed them all standing there in the lobby, waiting for him. "What now?" he snapped.

"Where the hell have you been?" Anthony growled. David and Emily stood nervously beside him, unsure of what to do or say. "I wake up and your buddies tell us you're not even here –"

"I'm not going to ask your permission whenever I go somewhere," Ian said quietly.

Even though he had heard it the day before, the icy way Ian spoke had him pausing with a pang of unease. _Is this really the same Ian I remember? _There was no trace of the ever-happy person he had known as a boy; nor of his smiling, laughing best friend, always looking for a way to make someone laugh. Now, those blue eyes were cold and haunted – Anthony had never seen anyone look at him so coldly, actually, and it scared him. His face was worn, thin, and a scar traced from his hairline to his right eyebrow; he had grown his beard, as usual, but it looked rather unkempt, and his hair was cut short and indifferent. "I want my answer," he said bluntly.

Ian just looked at him. "Here's your answer. No."

There was a ripple of tense silence; Anthony felt something seize his heart. He clenched his fists, feeling the heat rise to his face. "_What? _You made us wait around here for a day while God knows what's happening to Kalel only to tell us _no?_" His mind kicked into overdrive; how the fuck was he going to save her now? It may very well be too late because of this.

"Exactly," Ian said indifferently. He had taken out another cigarette, and Anthony watched him light it. _When the fuck did he start smoking? _"You shouldn't have punched me in the face last night."

David's head snapped around to look at him; Anthony held his glare the best he could. He had not told David that his temper had snapped completely when he had confronted Ian the night before, and he was regretting that now. He forced himself to speak. "I _am _sorry about that," he ground out, but he couldn't keep his voice apologetic for long. "But even then – you knew, you _knew_ you weren't going to help us, you were just going to leave Kalel there –"

"I told you not to put your faith in me." Ian looked calmly back at him, and the apathy prodded at his temper once more.

"Fuck you! Are you really going to let Kalel die because you can't get over what happened?"

"Anthony..." David began.

Ian's expression was so blank he could not tell if he was entering a deadly rage or if he was utterly indifferent to his words. "You have no idea what that cost me," the other man said quietly.

Anthony wanted to scream at him. _This is more important than your issues, for fuck's sake. _"I didn't want to leave you there, dammit! Ian, please." With effort, Anthony forced the fury out of his voice and tried to persuade him. "Don't let Kalel die because of this. She doesn't deserve that." He had been trying hard not to think about what Kalel was going through, but the image hit him like a physical blow as his words trailed off; suddenly he could think of nothing else but his wife sitting in a cell somewhere, her skin bruised and bloody, her stomach rumbling as she began to waste away.

Surely, _surely _Ian would see the same thing, and he would change his mind...he was his best friend, after all, he would understand –

Ian just looked at him. Anthony never realized how much contempt and iciness his expression could hold. "I gave you my answer."

Anthony did not know whether he was about to start shouting or punch him again, but he did not get the chance to react – the hall was suddenly filled with frantic gunrunners, scurrying about as they tried to attend to some problem. Too many of them held guns for his liking. He looked around at them, his anger forgotten. "What's going on?" he demanded, a bit nervously; he fumbled for Emily's hand.

Someone threw Ian a bulletproof vest. "The Russians found us," he said as he put it on.

"_What? _What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"Whatever you want," his former friend said dismissively. "I don't really care."

And with that, he disappeared toward the stairs.

Anthony scowled at him, but he could hear helicopters approaching and people yelling in various languages he could not understand – his hand gripping Emily's, he, David, and his daughter hurried toward the exit. Whatever conflict the gunrunners had found themselves in, they were _not_ going to be a part of it.

* * *

They were escorted at gunpoint into a separate building. David kept looking over his shoulder, searching for Ian; he never saw him. He didn't want to leave him there, right in the middle of the chaos, but what the hell could he do? Ian hadn't even questioned the idea that he would be involved in it. David worried for him and prayed he would make it out all right, as there was not much else he could do to help his old friend.

His heart was pounding when the stern-looking gunrunner guarded the door; they were hidden within the confines of a separate storage, where the gunrunners apparently kept the far more valuable loot. It was a rather small space with a locked back room, with boxes piled up to the ceiling with stuff, but David didn't really care about the room's features. He was about to ask how long they had to stay when Anthony let out a horrified gasp, scaring him into whirling around.

"Where the fuck is Emily?" Anthony said, his voice tight with terror.

David felt his heart leap to his chest. He looked around, but the room had no hiding places other than the boxes, and they were all stuffed with valuables - he could not find the girl. "Anthony, I –"

"Is she still in the fucking building?" his friend demanded. He strode up to the guard. "I have to go back – let me go back. Please!"

"No one leaves," the guard said in a deep monotone.

"My daughter's in there!" Anthony cried; when the guard deemed it necessary to point his gun at him, David had to hold him back to prevent him from doing something monumentally stupid. "Please, Emily's still in there, I've got to get to her –"

"So is Ian," David reminded him gently. He had been watching the door of the gunrunners' base; he had not yet seen their friend leave.

Anthony let out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sob. "He won't help her. He hates her. He hates all of us."

_I don't think that's true, _David thought. "He might still do the right thing. Don't give up hope yet."

Anthony bowed his head, and David heard him let out another choked sob as he surrendered himself to simply waiting. He felt terribly for him; he placed a hand on his shoulder and looked out at the building across the alley. David could not forget the unfeeling way he had dismissed what would happen to Kalel – some part of him wondered if he could do the same to Emily if he happened to stumble across her. _Come on, Ian, _he thought anxiously. _The person I remember wouldn't leave her there. _

* * *

_May 27__th__, 2014_

_ "All right. That's enough."  
_

_Ian did not even look up. He stared at the floor, his vision blurred and indistinct, and he felt utterly numb. It was a quite a difference from the overwhelming emotional pain over the last few days, but he had hardly noticed the change. He was as lost as he was unresponsive. He could not get the image out of his mind, of her lying there, unmoving, so still, so cold..._

_ "Hey. You." James prodded his shoulder, hard, and Ian blinked up at him. It was so hard to focus on anything other than the images he could not rid himself of. "You've sulked enough. It's time you did something useful."_

_ "I can't," Ian heard himself say. _

_ "Yes, you can. I know how you feel. I've lost people, too. A lot of people. Listen to me." He drew closer to him, and Ian forced himself to pay attention. "You want the Russians to suffer for what they did, right?"  
_

_The Russians? He hadn't thought about it much, but yes, he supposed that was correct. He nodded slowly._

_ "They fucked everything up. They hurt you, they killed people you care about. Do you know you can do – what you've already done – to get back at them?"_

_ He shook his head._

_ "Live," James said shortly. "They never intended you to survive the prison, but somehow, you did. Turn that anger against them. Make them regret that they have created an enemy."  
_

_"I can't do it," he heard himself say. "I'm not...I'm nothing special."_

_ "You're angry," James told him. "They've taken things away from you that you can't get back. That will be enough." Ian hesitated, trying to think, but it was so hard to see past a mess of blood and blond hair. James handed him something; a pistol, he realized. He had no idea if it was loaded or not. "I'm going to teach you to shoot," said James. "You might need to know, where you're going. Then there's a briefcase on the table out front. Deliver that to what used to be the apartment building on 6__th__. Don't fuck this up."  
_

* * *

April 11th, 2019

Ian heard the helicopter approaching.

He knelt behind what remained of a wall of the room. The fourth floor was open to the sky now, the bomb having torn out the entirety of the floors above. The wind swept through his hair, and with the fog and the general haze over the city, it was difficult to see more than three or four buildings down. He checked the rounds in the sniper rifle one more time and counted the extra ammo in his pocket. It was not as much as he would have liked, but it would do. All he needed to do was take out the chopper and kill any Russians that make it into the base.

It sounded simple, but Ian had been through enough of these situations to know that they didn't always go as planned. With his luck, this would go to hell very quickly. He had several ideas as to how the hell they had found them; it was entirely possible that either he or Anthony had led the Russians right to their base. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but not one he could dwell on much – it had happened, the Russians had found them, and now they had to deal with it the only way they knew how. Ian raised the rifle, testing the sights.

He could see a fellow gunrunner, Jack, kneeling amongst the wreckage on the other side of what had become the roof. Ian would have strongly preferred to be up here alone. He'd only done a few missions with Jack, and from what little he had seen of him, Ian knew he was a bad shot and quick to flee. It would have been just as effective if Jack wasn't there at all. There was no room for cowards in a situation like this.

The helicopter drew closer.

Ian placed the rifle on the broken bit of wall, angling it slightly, the better to aim if need be. He looked through the sights and found the helicopter on its way, weaving through the buildings still left standing.

He could hear gunshots echoing through the halls downstairs. The others were in a battle of their own; the Russians had decided to attack from the roof and ground floors, as James had known they would. Ian would join them if he took out the helicopter and survived.

He lined up the shot. Waited for them to come closer, waited for a clear shot of the pilot. Ian could see the guy sitting behind the controls of the stolen helicopter. There were a couple guys with guns in there with him, which was unsurprising. Ian waited a moment later, holding his breath, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet left a dent in the windshield, and the chopper peeled off to the left. The guys within brandished their guns, searching for the sniper. So they had bulletproof glass; they'd learned since last time, apparently. All it would do was delay the inevitable. Ian was a good enough shot that all he had to do was wait for a different angle. He drew back, reloading and listening to the gunshots from the floors below, but his head jerked around when he heard a report from his right.

"Stop shooting, you idiot," Ian hissed at Jack, who lowered the sub-machine gun at once. The other man sent him a dark look that he ignored. "I'm going to try to take out the chopper, kill anybody if they reach the –"

Bullets sprayed the wreckage. Ian recoiled behind the wall, clutching the rifle, his jaw clenched in frustration – the Russians couldn't find the sniper, so they were content to just shoot until they hit something. "Then take out the chopper!" Jack snarled in response.

_I would have, but you gave them a general idea of where we are. _Ian was scowling as he picked up the rifle and weaved, crouched and low, through the ruins – the helicopter was coming back for another attempt. He found a spot precariously out in the open, but it wouldn't matter so long as he shot the pilot. He half knelt amongst the wreckage, the rifle propped up and aimed at the approaching helicopter. Ian knew he would not get another shot – if this failed, the guys within the chopper would have a clear shot of him, and this would be over very quickly.

The helicopter peeled slightly to the left.

Ian pulled the trigger. The bullet shot past the guys with the guns.

Almost instantly, the helicopter jerked violently – Ian ducked behind the nearest pile of debris as bullets sprayed the spot he had been a moment before. The chopper veered toward the ruined building, far too fast, its nose dipped. He could hear the Russians within shouting and preparing to jump, but the helicopter dropped too quickly; there was a tremendous crash only fifteen feet away. He heard the sickening sound of steel clanging and twisting against concrete, screaming and shouting, before part of the chopper exploded. Half of it fell to the roof in twisted bits of black steel, and the other half – the one with the cockpit and rotor blades – hurtled toward him.

There was an eerie _screeeeee _noise as the front half of the chopper scraped against the debris, thrown forward by its momentum – Ian could see the blades coming closer, clanging on the concrete with each rotation, and he found himself with nowhere to go. He pressed himself against the broken wall and the blades drew closer; the sharp steel struck the concrete over and over again, in a powerful ten foot arc, smoke and flames billowing behind the broken helicopter. Ian held his breath, trying to get as far away as he could. The broken half wall was pressed against his back.

The helicopter came to a screeching halt not even a foot away from him, angled harshly on its nose. Its blades had gotten stuck in the pile of debris of what had once been part of a bathroom; they twitched sporadically as the mechanism sparked. Ian grasped the broken half wall, pulling himself up a little shakily. He eyed the blades as though waiting for them to spring to life. He was lucky to be walking away from this at all; he knew he had come very close to being chopped in half.

Ian stood on the eerily silent roof. The only sound came from the crackle of the flames from the crash. He checked the cockpit of the broken helicopter; all that remained were the bodies of the pilot Ian had shot and another who had presumably died in the crash. He hesitated, trying to remember if there had been more than one gunman in the helicopter. It was entirely possible that he'd managed to jump out before the crash and was waiting for a clear shot of him.

But he could not remain on the roof waiting for something that might not even happen; and he didn't value himself enough to care much about the risk. Ian eyed the broken remains of the other half of the chopper; it had landed right where Jack had been waiting to shoot. He could see no sign of the other gunrunner now, even when he walked over to investigate the wreckage. He was probably dead, and Ian wasn't going to waste time trying to find the body of an idiot who had very nearly gotten them both killed. The communicator in his ear sprang to life suddenly, the voice on the other line fuzzy with static: "_Ian, we need your help immediately,_" and he recognized James' voice at once. Fuck; he'd wasted too much time taking out the chopper when the other gunrunners were in trouble.

All right – the helicopter had been taken care of, as per James' instructions. Now all he had to do was prevent the rest of his coworkers from being torn up by the Russians' bullets. Ian found the staircase, which was dusty and had bits of debris strewn around its steps, and walked slowly to the floor below with his gun held at the ready. Ready to shoot, waiting for the inevitable Russian gunman to appear, shaky and adrenaline-fueled from his encounter with the helicopter; and all he wanted to do was curl up in the armchair in his room with a bottle of vodka.

At the foot of the stairs, he paused, listening hard; his blood ran cold when he heard the muttered voices of a pair of Russians. How the fuck had they gotten up to the third floor? Where were the others? Maybe he was too late to save them. If he was truly facing the entirety of a Russian assault by himself, he was better off jumping off the roof to try and make it out of this alive. He started badly when he heard gunshots – but they came from the floor below. Ian heard the Russians abandon their conversation and bolt toward whatever was going on downstairs.

He broke away from the wall, aimed at their retreating backs, and shot both of them. There was a yelp and a spurt of blood; Ian saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and without pausing to think, he ducked into the nearest room as he heard someone preparing to fire; there was a muttered swear. Ian made sure the room was clear and silently reloaded his gun. Fuck; now one of them knew where he was, and he'd gotten himself trapped in this room. He shouldn't have blown his cover like that, but he couldn't let those gunmen reach the others...

There was nothing he could do but wait for the Russian to find him. Ian listened intently, but it seemed the guy was hoping he would show himself first; if the other Russians realized what the guy was guarding, that would be it for him. He looked quickly around the room and realized at once to whom it belonged – only Luke would be crazy enough to display the grenades he had collected over the years on the shelf. Ian looked quickly to the doorway; still nothing. This was an unbelievably stupid idea and might render him worse off than before, but what choice did he have? His heart pounding painfully in his chest, he reached for the closest grenade. His hand grasped the cold surface just when he heard a creak of movement from the hall. He ripped the pin out with his teeth and tossed it through the doorway.

Ian had only a few seconds to prepare himself for the explosion that followed; he hid himself behind the wall as the second monstrous _boom_ he had experienced that day resonated through the entire building, shaking the walls and the closet doors and, most worrying, knocking a few of the damned grenades off the shelf. Ian watched them with wide eyes, his heart stopped completely, but their pins seemed to be in place. He heard a terrible scream from the hall as smoke wafted into the room. Ian rose to his feet, his gun at the ready, and moved cautiously to the doorway.

The grenade had left a smoldering hole in the middle of the hallway, which he supposed he should have expected; it was inconvenient and might slow him down even more, but at least the Russian was taken care of. Ian could see his body lying on the floor below, so badly burned, with bits of him missing, he was probably unrecognizable to his buddies. The edges of the hole in the floor were seething with sparks of flame, but with luck, they wouldn't collapse when he tried to make his way out of there. He eyed the body on the floor below, trying to judge the distance. He didn't want to jump; he'd probably hurt himself, and he might land right into a nest of Russians waiting for him. Ian looked back at the grenades in the room behind him and considered taking them with him, but he was much better with the pistol anyway and he didn't like the volatility of grenades. There was a very good chance he would blow himself up trying to use one. Turning back to the hallway, he placed his hand carefully on the door pane and prepared to leap across.

But a strangled sob caught his attention.

Ian turned sharply. The sound had come from the open room across the hall, closer to the staircase to the roof than the way he intended to go. He hesitated, sure he had imagined it, but the sob turned into outright crying, and suddenly Ian completely forgot the situation. The distance from the room in which he was stuck and back to the rightward hallway was not as far; he stepped nimbly around the hole in the floor and went to investigate.

He saw her right away. Emily startled severely when he stepped into view, but she didn't run. Her face was streaked with tears and she held her hands close to her chest. For a moment, they stared at one another. She started to cry. "Emily?" Ian said blankly.

The girl let out a choked sob, her tiny form shaking.

"Emily, come on," he said.

She started toward him. "I tried to find you," she stammered. "You didn't leave with Dad and Uncle David, so I thought you –"

"I know," he interrupted. He felt strange. Why the fuck was he helping her? She was the very thing that Anthony had chosen over him, living proof that his former best friend had been living a far more comfortable life than Ian had.

But he had seen too many kids killed in this new world. Homeless children just trying to survive would be shot for stealing, and it hurt every time he saw another one die. Ian may have hated her parents, but Emily did not deserve to be left to die because of grievances that occurred six years ago.

She held her hands close to her chest. "I'm scared," she mumbled.

The earpiece came to life once more. "_Ian! We need help NOW!_"

"It'll be okay," he said to her, hardly aware of what he was saying. "Come on."

He had to get her across the gap he had created with that grenade somehow, and apart from throwing her into it and hoping she would somehow make it, he didn't really see another option other than picking her up and taking her across himself. Ian lifted the little girl, and she clung, terrified and frozen, to his neck. She was a bit heavier than he'd thought. With Emily held with one arm and his gun in the other hand, he leapt across the gap the grenade had created, landing stiffly on the other side. He knelt there for a moment, hardly daring to breathe; he could have sworn he felt the floor creak, as though it was about to break and crumble some more.

Emily was shaking in his arms. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

"Y-yes," she stammered.

Movement in the hall right ahead.

He shot the man who had hesitated just a fraction too long, and the Russian collapsed in the dusty hallway as blood pooled around him. He placed Emily carefully on the floor, and with his gun at his side, Ian walked silently over to the body to search for any ammo.

"You shot that guy," Emily said slowly from behind him.

"Yeah." He pocketed the guy's gun, which only had a few rounds. He looked back at her; the girl had paled and was frozen to the spot. _Well, Anthony, she knows the truth of the world now. _Ian had just killed a man right in front of her. He couldn't imagine her father appreciated that much, and he didn't really care. Sheltering her from the realities of what was going on might help with a few nightmares, but in the long run, a naïve girl could help no one, not even herself.

Emily stayed silent. She watched him with wide, shocked dark blue eyes. If she was smart, she would run away as soon as she realized what he was. But instead the little girl walked up to him, her small hands folded nervously. Her dress was ripped in places.

He heard shouts and gunshots and he knew they couldn't stay there much longer. "Let's go," he muttered. "Stay behind me."

They were still on the third floor; they had a ways to go if he wanted to get her to safety. _Dammit Anthony, keep better track of your damned kid, _he thought bitterly, but his mind became sharp and focused as he peered cautiously into the stairwell. He listened; he could hear nothing but the distant sound of gunshots, and for all he knew, they could be part of an entirely different fight. Ian glanced back at Emily. The little girl had the sense to be silent; she was anxiously waiting for his instruction.

_What the fuck am I doing? _She was not his responsibility. She was a very painful reminder that Anthony had made the best of the takeover while Ian was left to suffer. So why, _why _did he feel the need to save her? No one would blame him if he left the little girl to be shot by the Russians when her father had left him to die six years ago.

"Come on," he muttered, his gun held at the ready.

Emily padded silently behind him as he moved into the hall. His mind raced; there was only one way out of the building, but with the Russians around and waiting for him, there was very little he could do to get the girl out safely. He considered waiting until the fight was done – it was the only way he could think that they wouldn't encounter any Russians. But the others were waiting for him, and despite Ian's disregard for their well-being thus far, he wasn't about to abandon them. And there was the possibility that they wouldn't make it through the fight without him. The gunrunners might have a better chance if Ian arrived from upstairs and shot them in the back.

That plan quickly went to hell when two Russian gunmen appeared in the opposite stairwell.

Ian fired a shot; he seized Emily and ducked into the nearest room, but not before he heard a report of a gunshot and agony blazed across his right shoulder. He cried out in pain, very nearly stumbling over the couch, sinking to the ground and swearing loudly as he looking at the blood running down his arm. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, nicked him, but it still hurt like hell. He grit his teeth as he waited for the Russians to appear. He was well aware his bullet had missed.

Emily knelt beside him, trembling and watching him with wide blue eyes. "You're hurt," she stammered.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Try to hide before they –"

He saw someone peer around the corner; the gunman attempted to surprise him while he was still collecting himself, but Ian was ready. His first shot hit the guy in the arm – as he swore and fell back, the second shot splattered so much blood across the wall there was no way he could survive. Ian got up slowly, keeping his gun fixed on the doorway. The other guy was taking his time.

Ian ignored the pain in his shoulder and stepped cautiously toward the doorway. "Stay here," he hissed at Emily without taking his eyes off the portal. The girl was frozen to the spot anyway; she wasn't going anywhere.

His heart pounded in his ears as he listened for the gunman. Dammit – he shouldn't have gotten himself stuck in a room again, especially with no grenades to help him this time. If Emily hadn't been there, messing up the mission when he was supposed to be helping the others...Ian shoved the thought aside at once. Saving her had been the right thing to do. He was sure it had. But it didn't help that he'd gotten stuck again because of her. Ian paused by the portal, listening hard; the gunman was trying to be silent, staking out the room until Ian was forced to show himself. He wouldn't give him the chance.

"_Ian! For fuck's sake, where are you?_"

The building was suddenly so silent that the broadcast seemed deafening to his ears; and it was loud enough for the man to hear in the hall. Ian saw him move slightly into view, puzzled by the noise, and it was the last mistake he made. Ian shot first, The Russian jerked violently back and collapsed in the hall.

He gestured to Emily. "Let's go," he said.

The girl hesitated. "My ankle hurts," she mumbled. "I think I twisted it when we went in here..."

Ian stared at her, realizing that he had pulled her into the room with unnecessary force in an effort to save her life. Something close to guilt clenched at his insides and he said, "All right. Here." He walked over and picked her up again. It was more difficult this time, with his injured arm, but he ignored the pain and focused on getting them both out of there alive. Listening hard, he first made sure the hallway was safe, then made his way to the stairs.

It was dark, silent, and rather unsettling. Ian listened for anyone who might be waiting for him, then slowly started his descent. Emily clung to his neck, her face buried in his shoulder again. She had to be terrified, but for some reason she trusted him just enough to save her. _Bad judge of character,_ Ian thought grimly. He was the last person she should have trusted.

All thoughts were suddenly erased from his mind when he approached the corner and someone emerged, his gun pointed at them.

The Russian had him point-blank, but he had aimed the gun first at Emily, and he hesitated. Ian knew if he even raised his gun, both of them would be dead. With Emily's arms wrapped around his neck, almost choking him, he said in Russian, "You don't have to do this."

His tone was placating and even; it was not one he had ever used when speaking to a Russian. The gunman's eyes snapped over to his. "Just you," he grunted. He gestured for him to release Emily.

_So this is how I die. Protecting someone I should have left behind. _Ian paused a moment, then gently removed the girl's arms from his neck. He fully intended to let her go and take the bullet for her. Why the fuck not? It would make up for all the terrible things he had done over the past six years. And he certainly was not afraid of death. With everything that had happened to him, it was a miracle he was not killed years ago.

Just as he was about to set her down, a gunshot rang out. Ian jumped badly, but it was the gunman who had been shot. Emily squeaked in terror and buried her face in his shoulder once more as the Russian collapsed in the hall. Ian looked up to find John lowering his pistol.

"Thanks," Ian said quietly.

John took one look at the girl and Ian knew he had figured out why he wasn't present for the fight. He narrowed his eyes, fixing Ian with an expression he had only seen him give their enemies. "The fight is over," he said coldly. "I'll see you outside."

Then he turned and walked away.

There wasn't anything else to do but follow him. The walk through the building was an unpleasant reminder that he had left the other gunrunners to fend for themselves; there was blood splattered everywhere, and while most of the bodies scattered around were Russians, he could see some of their men as well. He tried not to think too much about it. Ian stumbled out of the base, bleeding, sweating, and panting, with Emily in his arms and clinging to his neck. He crossed the alleyway to the storage, opening the door with some difficulty; his arm was almost numb. Anthony and David were waiting for him inside. Anthony looked frantic, having driven himself half mad with worry. Ian gave him his daughter back as his former friend stared, open-mouthed. "Here," he said uncharitably.

"Ian," Anthony stammered, reaching for him, "how can I thank –"

"_Don't _touch me." He jerked away. _I didn't do it for you. _He needed a cigarette immediately; he was shaking from panic and adrenaline and he had no idea why he had saved Anthony's kid at all. With trembling hands, he fished for his pack of cigarettes and fumbled with the lighter. It took several attempts to light up.

Someone stepped up to him. Ian looked up with a scowl, expecting Anthony, but it was Luke. "Come with me," the gunrunner said in a low, grim voice.

Ian followed him without another word, the cigarette between his teeth. He didn't know what he was expecting, but when Luke brought him to the back room and the gunrunners parted to give him a clear view, James lying grievously wounded certainly was not it. Ian felt strangely numb as he ran his eyes over his injuries, all gunshot wounds; they had tried to stop the bleeding in his chest and shoulder using towels that were now soaked with red, but he had seen enough to know that a person could not lose that much blood and survive.

He felt as though he should say something, but he had no idea where to start. He had been nowhere near them when this shit went down; no, instead Ian had taken his time getting out of the base because he seemed to think that saving Anthony's kid was more important than the person who had saved his life. James looked at him through glassy eyes as his chest rose and fell weakly. "I don't want to know where you were, and why you weren't fighting with us," he said in a hoarse voice. "I don't care. Kill more of these fuckers for me, Ian. We lost our country because of them, we lost friends and family – kill them, God dammit. Kill as many as you..." His words became choked and he coughed blood onto the couch. He closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, James," Ian said quietly. He drew back from him, suddenly unable to remain there any longer. James had asked for his help, demanded he defend them when their leader realized he was in trouble, but Ian had chosen to save Anthony's stupid kid instead. A numbness spread through his limbs that had nothing to do with his injury. _Is that any different than what Anthony did to me? _The thought was jarring, and he took a long drag on the cigarette to calm the storms that arose in his mind. His heart pounded in his ears. _Fuck. Fuck. _

_I'm no better than him._

"What the fuck happened?" someone demanded. "How did they find us?"

There was a pause. Ian's heart raced. "I don't know," said John. "It was only a matter of time until they figured out where we were." That was true; the Russians probably wanted to raid the base when they realized how many weapons they could get. Not to mention that the gunrunners had been a thorn in their sides for a long time, almost as long as the war had been going on.

"How did James know they were coming?" another asked, but no one had an answer for him.

Anthony, David, and Emily stood near the doorway, watching the scene with wide eyes. Ian strode up to them, angry with them, with the Russians, but mostly with himself. "All right," he growled to Anthony. "I'll help you."

"What?" Anthony said blankly.

Ian ground his teeth. "I'll help you save Kalel. But I want to be paid, because I seem to be out of a job." He jerked his head as his employer, who was probably already dead. He should have been grieving, felt some sort of remorse, but he just felt deadened.

Anthony blinked at him, then turned to David. The former gamer shrugged, his eyes running worriedly over Ian's injured shoulder. "I have some guns I can give you."

"Good," Ian said. "We'll leave now. Come on." Even though not all of them realized Ian had not been present for the fight, he knew that the other gunrunners were not happy with him, so there really was no reason to stay there any longer. His thoughts were furious and fragmented. _I guess I chose my old life over the new when I decided to save Emily instead of James. _How much did the gunrunners really mean to him then? He shook his head, pissed at himself; he thought one way and acted another, and now he was about to help someone he had sworn to himself he would never associate with again. _Maybe there's more of the old me left than I thought. _

He started toward the door. "Thank you, Ian," said Anthony quietly.

_Don't thank me. You have no idea what this will put me through. _Another reason he had refused to help Anthony, other than the fact he as pissed as hell at him, that his former friend seemed to have forgotten the events of six years ago – Ian knew exactly where Kalel had ended up. The prison where he had spent a good six months had been restored shortly after the gunrunners raided it. He had not gone anywhere near that place since he had been freed, and he was about to willingly walk right into it. _How the fuck am I going to hold myself together for this? _

* * *

A/N: Oh dear...

Anthony seriously does need to keep better track of Emily xD haha. I hope this chapter came together all right lol. I hate it when there's a very specific way I've imagined these scenes going, but it just won't work when I finally write it out, so it somehow doesn't end up as dramatic &amp; awesome...oh well, writer problems lol.

Next time: Ian gets them to the prison where Kalel is held. I think it'll be another short one before the main intensity of the rescue begins, but I'm not quite sure; it depends on how long it ends up.

Thanks for reading guys!


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Hey guys! I'm back!

And dammit, another breakup went down. Well, just pretend that Anthony &amp; Kalel are still together anyway, just like I've been doing with Melian xD Don't mind me, just trying to keep my OTPs together somehow.

This chapter was going to be just the drive over to the base, but this story is moving slowly enough, so I decided to combine it into the rescue as well, since some people have been requesting longer chapters anyway. Yay! I hope this is all right.

Enjoy :)

* * *

Despite the chaos of that morning, getting a car and taking off wasn't that much of a hassle. Ian knew that the gunrunners had no idea what to do with him and thus couldn't wait to get him out of there. He couldn't blame them. It had not been his fault James had died, but he hadn't done everything he could to save him, either. Ian was not eager to return to the shitstorm he knew his former coworkers would have waiting for him.

Even though he couldn't return to his room to get whatever he might need for the inevitable violence, Ian still made do using a room in a separate apartment he kept hidden from the other gunrunners. He had stolen it from a Russian whose body was rotting away in an alley somewhere, so he wouldn't miss it. Ian stored anything there he thought the gunrunners wouldn't need – or perhaps miss. They might have been the closest thing he had to friends, but he still stole from them, using the hours they were away doing their own jobs to his advantage. He made the other three wait in the lobby, which gave him time to tend to his injured shoulder, then he took a few guns, ammunition, and certain explosives from the apartment and locked it with the stolen key. After he had what he needed, Ian brought them downstairs to the garage. He owned several stolen cars. Six years of hell couldn't make him lose his love for vehicles, and as much as he would have liked to take the fanciest one he owned, it made more sense to take the inconspicuous Subaru that wouldn't draw any unwanted attention. He drove them all onto the road and they began the trip north.

For the most part, the four of them were silent. Ian was perfectly happy to spend the entire trip without saying a word, but he knew that would be far fetched. He drove through traffic with one hand on the steering wheel and the other held against his forehead, his elbow resting on the door, trying to ignore everything that was wrong with what he was doing. Ian should not have been driving them all to save Kalel. He kept telling himself this was just another job, another mission he would get paid for, and then he could be rid of them once again. He could return to hiding in Anaheim and he would never have to put up with these people another time. But Ian knew that wouldn't be true. He might have written them off, but for some reason the others still cared – he would be hard pressed to get Joshua to leave him alone, or even David, and he guessed that both of them would try to get him and Anthony to reconcile. They would be fighting a losing battle.

Ian cracked a window open and lit a cigarette, ignoring Anthony's disapproving frown in the passenger seat beside him. He stared at the traffic ahead of him, daring him to say anything about his smoking – he did not need much of an excuse to yell at his former best friend. But Anthony surprised him. "Hey, man. I'm sorry about...about your boss. You were close to him, weren't you?"

He took a long drag. Anthony waited for him to respond, staring at him expectantly. Ian saw his gaze flick uncertainly to the rear-view mirror as he shared a glance with David. He felt torn. He couldn't bring himself to thank his friend, even though he appreciated his words. Anthony was right – he had been close to James. James had been the one who had pulled him out of that prison and gave him a new purpose. But agreeing with Anthony would hurt some part of his soul, and he just couldn't make himself do it. "He was just another gunrunner," Ian said with a shrug. "People die a lot in this business. It's not that big a deal."

From the look on Anthony's face, he knew Ian was lying. So he hadn't lost his inexplicable ability to read other people, although it seemed to drift in and out of effectiveness when Anthony wanted something from him. Ian made no effort to be genuine. He was going to help Anthony get Kalel back – it was the best he was going to get. "Whatever," the other man muttered. "You sure you know where we're going?"

_I know exactly where we're going. I spent six fucking months there. _Ian's hand tightened on the steering wheel. He needed the guns, the money, but was it worth the breakdown and mental fuckup he would inevitably go through when he reached the prison? He might lose himself in the most dangerous of circumstances, and Anthony had no idea what this was going to cost him. It was unfair and frustrating and it made Ian hate himself more for agreeing to this, but he had no other jobs going on at the moment. And since he had suddenly found himself estranged from the other gunrunners, he might not have another job for a while.

Ian would just have to hope he could keep himself together long enough to free Kalel.

"Yes," he said shortly.

"How's your shoulder?" David asked from the back.

He had almost forgotten about it. Ian rolled the joint slowly and felt little pain. "Fine," he muttered.

Another long stretch of silence. One would have thought someone who had not seen these people in six years would have had more to say to them, but he did not even want to be there, much less speak to those who had forgotten him. He instead watched the buildings and the traffic and the people around the city, smoking his cigarette without saying a word. As usual, people walked with their heads down; terrified Americans and out-of-place Russians or Arabs, all worried about when the next attack would take place. They drifted in and out of their shopping as though expecting a bomb to strike the market place, although it wasn't exactly an overreaction. He could see people sleeping underneath a bridge as they passed slowly by, still held up by the traffic. Some of them had pipes and bongs and other strange substances scattered around carelessly. These were the people who had completely given up. If it hadn't been for James, Ian might have found himself among them one day.

He eyed their drugs with a curious, slightly longing gaze. He had tried once, not long after he had lost Melanie. The other gunrunners had found him in his room, a needle in his arm and utterly lost, tears streaking his face. The drugs had put him in contact with his emotions on a level he couldn't handle. Ian had never tried drugs again.

His attention was forced suddenly from the group on the side of the street when Anthony sat up straighter in his seat, staring anxiously out the windshield. They had reached another jam, but this time there was what looked like a toll booth slowing down the cars ahead. Russians, armed with unnecessarily huge guns, stopped and talked to every car that passed. Some were asked to peel away from the group, leave their vehicle, and be escorted away.

"This is a checkpoint," Anthony said, his voice tight with worry.

_Well spotted, fuckwit. _"Yep," said Ian.

"We're not Russians. They're stopping Americans, aren't they? What the fuck are we going to do?" Anthony wrung his hands and looked nervously back at his daughter.

Ian listened to him ramble in quiet amusement. "Guess we have a problem," he said, sounding every bit unconcerned.

His friend shot him a furious glance. "Damned straight we have a problem! What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have a plan?"

"No," he said absently as he rolled down the window. Their car was the next in line. "I'd suggest not speaking, though."

"Ian – " Anthony hissed, but he was forced into silence as Ian pulled the car up next to the waiting Russians.

A grizzled old soldier stepped up to the car, bending to see through the window and eyeing everyone inside. "Where are you headed?" he asked Ian, in Russian. Anthony was looking carefully away from them, his hands shaking and his posture tense.

Ian lit another cigarette. "Northbound, to trade in some guns," he answered in the same language. He sensed Anthony's start of surprise and ignored it. The soldier was thankfully oblivious.

"And the girl?" The old Russian nodded toward Emily in the back. Ian couldn't see her, but he hoped she was at least trying to act this was normal.

He shrugged. "It was safer to bring her with us, believe it or not. Damned Americans might try to blow the place up while we're gone." It almost wasn't a lie. They had nowhere to leave Emily while they were out rescuing her mother. It simply wasn't worth the effort to drive all the way back to LA just to ask Joshua if he could watch her for the time being, especially when he might have been busy at the hospital. Ian didn't like it, but the girl would have to wait in the car while they infiltrated the prison.

The soldier studied them. He nodded once. "All right. Go ahead, then. Don't start any trouble."

"No worries," Ian said easily, keeping his expression carefully neutral as Anthony seemed to struggle with himself beside him. He gave the soldier a returning nod and pressed lightly on the gas. The car pulled away from the checkpoint, and they were on their way once more.

There was a resounding silence. Ian was trying very hard not to laugh. At last, Anthony said in a low, dangerous tone, "You can speak Russian."

He kept his eyes on the road. "Yeah."

"You didn't tell us that. I was over here freaking out and the whole time you could have just told me that you spoke Russian!"

Ian heard David laugh from the back seat. "He's developed a rather vindictive sense of humor, hasn't he?"

Anthony crossed his arms and fell into silence once more. Ian smirked to himself as he drove. Another victory for him.

No one spoke again until they had left the city proper and Ian turned the car into an empty alleyway. He had seen the prison for a split second before the brick walls hid it from view, and it didn't help his mental state at all. He was the perfect picture of calm indifference on the outside, but his heart was pounding anxiously and he knew the flashbacks would not stay away for long. He was about to willingly walk into the place of his nightmares for somebody he hated. What the fuck was he doing? Why had he taken them all the way there – he had to get out of there. Right now.

_Why _had he done this to himself?

"Where are we?" said David, a slightly tense edge to his voice. Ian could see Emily in the rear view mirror, looking around worriedly, but silent. She had scooted close to David, and he had an arm around her shaking form.

Ian swallowed hard, but his tone was indifferent. "We're here. The prison is just around the corner." He looked over at Anthony. "Go get her."

His former friend stared at him blankly. "Uh, what?"

"Kalel's in the prison around the corner. Did you not fucking hear me? You wanted me to get you here. So go."

Anthony was stunned into silence. Then his brows furrowed together and his voice grew sharp. "What? You said you were going to help me save her!"

"I believe you asked me to get you to where she was being held," Ian said carelessly.

"That is _not _what we agreed, Ian!" snarled Anthony. "You said you would _go into the prison _and help me save her, dammit!"

"Is it? Is that exactly what we agreed?" An infuriating smirk twisted his mouth. Anthony glared at him, trying to speak, but Ian cut across him. "If neither of us can remember exactly what we agreed upon, I think I'm free to change the specifics. And if you really want me to risk my ass for Kalel, I'm going to expect a larger payment."

"You son of a bitch," Anthony snapped.

There was another resonating silence. Ian turned back toward the windshield. He couldn't have cared less that he was being an he could freely admit he couldn't resist an opportunity to piss off Anthony.

He heard David let out an angry, defeated sigh. "We'll get you your guns."

"Good." Ian opened his door. His heart pounded, and in the back of his mind, screams and cruel laughter echoed. He walked out of the car without another word, popping the trunk open and retrieving a briefcase. He hid a pistol in the waistband of his paints. Ian felt as though he was walking toward the guillotine when he moved back to the car. "Wait here."

"You're going alone?" Anthony said loudly. Ian rolled his eyes when his former friend jumped out of the car, slamming the door closed. "You don't need help?"

Ian just looked at him. "I've done many more successful operations alone than with a group. And you've never been part of something like this. You'd get in the way."

"You can't go alone, though," he said, frowning.

_I wish you cared so much six years ago. _Ian just looked at him. He saw a skinny, naïve man who had no idea what he was trying to get himself involved in and had never fired a gun in his life. Ian wouldn't mind if Anthony got himself killed trying to help him, but he didn't want Anthony to get _him _killed with his inexperience. He scowled. "Just stay here and look after Emily and David. You can use one of these, right?" He opened the briefcase and handed him a 9 millimeter.

Anthony hesitated, staring at the pistol as though it might corrupt him.

"If you can't, you've got no business trying to help me. I'll be back soon...probably."

Ian abruptly walked past him. He moved onto the sidewalk, never bothering to check if Anthony was following him. He felt oddly cold, a strange numbness attacking his limbs and heart, and he realized that it was fear. He had not been truly afraid in six years simply because he did not care enough about himself to fear death. Ian had no idea what he was doing, helping someone he hated, especially when it meant returning here. _Does Anthony know what might happen to me if someone here realizes who I am?_

* * *

"You've got guns for us?"

The person who escorted him into the prison was a fidgety young man who kept fumbling with his uniform. He had held a gun to Ian's throat upon his arrival, but at the first Russian word Ian spoke, the man had drawn away with a hasty apology. It wasn't exactly unusual behavior, given where the poor man worked. There was an eerie silence throughout the entrance hallway, but he knew he could hear the echoing screams at any moment.

Outside, the prison had not been a memorable structure. It was a drab one-story building with a short, paved walkway to the entrance. A fence had been constructed around the back, enclosing the laundry and other facilities. Even once he had stepped inside, nothing thus far had set off any of his flashback triggers, as Ian had been shot and unconscious when they dragged him through the front door six years ago. But the prison had a distinctive smell, one of blood, dust, and machinery, and he recognized it as soon as he walked inside. He immediately wished he had a drink. No, he wished he didn't have to be there at all. Ian grit his teeth and followed the man, his hand gripping the handle of the briefcase and his other hand clenched into a fist, as he pretended not to notice the blood on the once white walls, the Russian men who studied him as he walked past, the hall that would probably take him to the cells.

Ian kept his face perfectly impassive. It was what he had been trained to do, and it had saved his life more times than he could count. "That's correct," he said. "I received a tip that guns were wanted here, so I thought this might be the best place to do business."

Thank God his bullshit reflex was still working. The man nodded distractedly. "Yes. We've needed guns. Damned Americans keep stealing from our dead. We also need ammo. You have that, too?"

"Lots," he stated briskly.

"I'll take you to our overseer, then. Come on."

Ian had no idea who their overseer was going to be, but he hoped he would be as easy to fool as this kid was. The young man led him past the holding cells and through a second door at the back. As soon as he opened it, however, a piercing scream met his ears, and Ian very nearly stumbled over his own feet. He prayed the man had not noticed the way his face had drained of color and a thin sheet of cold sweat coated his skin as memories of his own nightmare plagued him. He swallowed several times and tried to think of something that might calm him. The only trouble was, there was not much in his life that brought him some sense of peace besides alcohol and cigarettes, and he was unfortunately limited from both at the moment. Memories of his old life only made him angry, as it seemed that no one from Smosh cared enough about him to try to find him or save his life. And the less he thought about Melanie, the better.

Instead, Ian focused on the idea that Anthony and the others would be gone from his life after this mission, and he could carry on killing Russians and stirring up trouble as much as he liked. With the flashbacks once again delayed, Ian was taken to a back room. A large Russian man could be seen rifling through letters and papers. Ian peered at him through the window in the door. For some reason, the sight of the man had a chill of fear traveling up his spine, but he couldn't say he recognized him.

The young man opened the door. "Sorry to bother you, sir," he said. "This guy says he has guns to trade us."

There was a grunt of acknowledgment as the Russian gestured vaguely for him to enter. The other man left quickly, shutting the door behind him. Ian held out a hand. "Good to meet you. I heard you were in need of something to arm your men."

"That we are," said the overseer, and he shook his hand and raised his eyes to meet Ian's. Ian felt his heart skip several beats as terror pounded into his veins. "Your timing could not be better, actually."

_Oh, God. No. No. _It took herculean effort, but Ian somehow kept his face perfectly neutral as he laid the briefcase on the desk and sat in the opposite chair. Now he understood why the man had scared him so badly; he _had_ seen the overseer before, but he hadn't exactly been in the best state of mind to commit him to memory. The twisted scar mottled across one eye had given him away, and the other was a piercing, cruel silver.

Ian had not seen the overseer since the day before he was rescued from the prison. He had been the one who had dragged him from his cell each day, distributed instructions as to which experiments he wanted conducted, and disappeared as he was left to scream. _How _this guy had survived the gunrunners' attack on the prison was beyond him. What a strange twist of fate that the twenty-six year old he had once tortured to the brink of death was working undercover to try and bring the prison down.

_This is going to make it so much harder to keep myself together. _Ian looked the man straight in the eye. What was he going to do if he recognized him? _He won't. He won't. It's been six years. There's no way he's going to know who I am. _Ian kept telling himself that, over and over, and he forced himself to pay attention when the overseer began speaking.

"Let's have a look." The Russian man flipped the briefcase open and pondered the contents inside. Ian watched him eye the dismantled guns with a greedy, fascinated eye. "What sort of ammo do you carry?"

Ian described the ammunition. Hoped and prayed the man would not look at him too closely. His mind had quickly become a torrent of flashbacks and screams. He remembered the sound of the man's cruel laughter, the way his boots tracked blood into his cell every time he dragged him out...

The overseer might not have recognized him yet, but Ian could place him all too clearly. "I see." The Russian man nodded, scrawling a note on a piece of paper and sweeping it off to the side. "Well, I guess those will have to do. What are your prices? I can offer you rubles or a different assortment of guns. And don't try to scam me, boy – I haven't thrown away the idea of shooting you and taking all of this for myself, even if you are one of us."

"Of course," Ian said coolly. "Rubles are preferred." His voice had wavered dangerously at the last word. The man looked up at him, considering, analyzing, then glanced down at the guns again. "Four hundred for everything you see. One seventy-five for just the ammo. Two twenty-five for just the guns."

It had been a long time since he had attempted to scam someone without any alcohol involved. Ian had no idea if he could pull this off, even without the demons afflicting him. And pretty soon he would have to move this from a normal transaction to actually attempting to rescue Kalel.

Then he heard another scream.

The sound sent another wave of memories attacking his consciousness, sending him back and forth between past and present, showing him splatters of blood and screams of pain. Ian rubbed at his temples, willing himself to stay calm. Stay focused. He could do this, he could keep himself sane just for this job... _What if he recognizes me? What if I end up back in that cell today? God, I can't go through that again. I can't._

"Fine," the overseer said, ignoring the noise. "Wise prices; I'd say you've been in this business for a while if you know not to try and scam one of us. Well done on your part, eh?" And he patted Ian's head like a dog that had done well on command. Ian would have bristled if he weren't so terrified. The overseer frowned. "Are you all right?"

Ian nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, of course."

But the overseer did not look away. His frown stayed as it was, and that cold gray eye ran over his face, studying him. "You don't look it. Actually, you look familiar," he said. "Have I seen you before?"

Ian's heart began to pound painfully in his chest. He willed himself to look steadily into the Russian man's gaze, but fear had rendered him mute. All he could think about was being dragged out of that office and thrown in a cell. Waiting for the moment they would take him for whatever hellish experiments they had planned. His pulse quickened and he felt a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face.

Someone burst into the office. Ian started badly, but neither the overseer or the newcomer noticed. "Sir – someone just shot at one of our men. We think he's in the prison now."

"God dammit," the overseer muttered. He stood up quickly and glanced down at Ian. "I'm afraid we'll have to finish this transaction later. Stay here if you want to avoid getting shot, gunrunner. I'll be back soon."

"All right," Ian managed to say.

He didn't hear the door slam behind the two men. Ian sank into one of the worst panic attacks he had ever experienced. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if he'd had alcohol to deaden his senses, but he was stuck in the prison from his nightmares, and a long way from his bottle of vodka. The terror overwhelmed him, and the images became so vivid he was convinced he had been captured again...and this time the gunrunners wouldn't be there to save him.

When Ian pulled himself out of the terrified recesses of his mind, his face was streaked with tears. He dried his face with the sleeve, hating himself and what he had been reduced to, and forced himself to stand. His legs shook under his weight. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck Anthony and his God damned wife, fuck this job, fuck everything. _

Another scream sounded, but it didn't take him into another attack. Instead, it made him angry. He would never truly be at peace while this place existed. Maybe...maybe he could do something about that. He could erase this place from existence, maybe granting himself some sense of peace. With shaking hands, Ian reached into the briefcase, shuffling past the guns and ammo until he uncovered a hidden compartment at the bottom. He flipped it open. Several bombs lay inside.

It took him thirty seconds to arm one. He hid it within a drawer in the desk; he couldn't hear it ticking unless he listened very carefully. With that taken care of, Ian snapped the briefcase closed, picked it up, and turned toward the door. Took a single, deep breath – he felt the fear bleed away. He still had a job to do. And if he was successful, this place would cease to exist. He had given himself fifteen minutes. It would be plenty of time to find Kalel and get the fuck out of there.

Ian left the room and walked into the hall. He could hear the Russians shouting at each other, issuing orders as they tried to find the gunman. _I never thought I'd ever say this, but thank God for Anthony,_ he thought. His former friend had incredible timing; Ian was pretty sure that if the overseer had even a minute more, he would have been found out, and he probably would have ended up in one of those cells.

He pushed past the panicked Russians. No one made a move to stop him; they were too focused on finding whoever had begun firing upon the prison. They had completely forgotten about him, and it was exactly what Ian had hoped for. The only problem he had now was finding his way to the cell blocks as quickly as he could. He didn't regret placing that bomb, but it had certainly made his job unnecessarily difficult. Blowing up the prison definitely had not been part of the plan. It wouldn't be a lie, however, to admit that this place suddenly eradicated would probably bring him some sense of peace. It might not fix him entirely, but that was another job all in itself.

After a long run down the white brick halls, he found that the prison cells were kept behind a separate cell door. The keys were hidden inside the abandoned security desk. Ian stole the keys and let himself inside. As soon as he crossed that door, a heavy sense of dread nearly overwhelmed him. _This _was the part of the prison he remembered. His pace slowed as he walked past the cells filled with various cruel instruments, none of which he spent too long analyzing; he couldn't risk another flashback, not now. He forced himself to trudge forward. It was quite some time before he came across any prisoners – the 'lab' cells seemed to go on for ages. As he passed through the dark corridors, Ian scanned every prisoner's face, searching for the person he was looking for.

It was sadly easy to tell which prisoners had been there the longest. Some people were pacing, some shouted at him, either cries for help or obscenities; some chatted nervously with their cellmates. But then there were the prisoners who were huddled up in the corner, parts of their clothes soaked with blood. Trembling and shaking and muttering to themselves, their watery eyes never still, their breath hitched and pained. Ian knew exactly what they had been through. It hurt to realize he had once been just as lost.

Ian recognized her at once. She was standing with her head resting on the bars of her cell, and when he stopped at the sight of her, she raised her eyes in confusion. There was a Russian guard standing near, watching him warily as well. Ian stepped up to him. "The overseer requested your presence," he told him in Russian. "We're under attack."  
The Russian swore and pushed himself away from the wall, hurrying down the corridor.

Kalel frowned at him. She took a step back as he unlocked her cell. "Hurry up," he told her.

The cell door swung open. Kalel hesitated. She didn't look as though anything too cruel had happened to her; her little dress was ripped and blood had mottled near her collarbone, but the eyes she fixed him with were fierce. "Who are you? What's going on?" she demanded.

"Kalel, don't fucking argue with me," Ian snapped. He was a little surprised that personable, friendly Kalel had forgotten the face of her husband's best friend. Although he was well aware he didn't exactly look like the man they remembered.

She stepped hesitantly out of her cell, shooting him a stunned glance. "How do you know my name?" she said. Her fierce tone wavered, and she paused, studying him in the darkness.

Ian slammed the cell door closed. When he made no move to free anyone else, a few of the other prisoners slammed into the bars of their cells, shaking the doors and shouting at him. "Hey, asshole! Us, too!"

"Sorry," he said without looking at them. "I'm not getting paid to rescue you." Ian glanced down at Kalel. "Come on. We're leaving. Now."

But Kalel snatched up the keys he had left in her cell door. "Uh, no. We're not leaving without the rest of these guys. Why do I have more of a right to be saved than them?"

"I already answered that," Ian snapped.

"That's not fair," Kalel said, stepping toward the nearest cell. "I'm saving them."

"_No,_" he snarled, and he seized her arm.

Kalel whirled around and struck him in the face. His head jerked to the side. Ian released her at once. His cheek stung, he was furiously angry, but he had not missed that sharp intake of breath. He raised his eyes to find her frozen, her eyes running over his face. "Oh my God," she said softly. "Ian?"

He scowled down at her. He had no idea how he kept his voice so calm. "We have to leave _now _because there's a bomb planted in the prison that's set to go off in maybe ten minutes."

The shock was quickly replaced with that look of fierce defiance. "Then we'd better work fast, hadn't we?" she snapped, and with that, she turned sharply and began to unlock the other cells.

Ian grit his teeth. _Stupid, self righteous little... _As he stood there seething, the other prisoners began to file out of the cell block. They shot him looks of pure loathing, but Ian was beyond caring; he did not want to be killed by his own bomb. He couldn't leave without her, so he ended up following Kalel from cell to cell as she freed every person inside, but when she happened upon one of the more broken ones, the prisoner shrank away from her and wept. "Leave him," Ian snapped.

Kalel's head whipped around to stare at him. "What? I'm not leaving anyone behind."

"You can't save everybody," he said coldly. "We've wasted enough God damned time. We've got to _go,_ Kalel."

She hesitated. Ian resisted the urge to snatch her arm and drag her out of that cell, but he didn't want to get slapped again, and he had a feeling the stupid woman had gotten the point at last. She stood and pushed past him. Together they made their way out of the cell block.

Her gaze was searching and critical as she analyzed him. "Did Anthony send you?"

"Sort of," said Ian.

"You're supposed to be dead."

"Surprise," he said dryly.

"What happened? How are you –"

"Ask Anthony," he said dismissively, just as they rounded a corner.

A bullet ricocheted off the wall; Ian shoved Kalel behind him, drawing his pistol. It seemed the Russians had figured out that the gunrunner they had let inside the prison wasn't one of them...and even worse, that he was responsible for letting the prisoners free. He grit his teeth. He _knew_ he shouldn't have allowed her to save all those people.

Ian hissed at Kalel to shut up when she began to quietly panic. Someone shouted at him in Russian; he made a split-second decision. They did not have time for this. They were dead anyway if that bomb went off while they were stuck inside the prison. He had nothing to lose anyway, so why wait this one out like a normal fight? Kalel gasped in shock when he broke cover, stepped around the corner, and shot the first person he saw.

It turned out to be the overseer. The man's remaining eye flew open when the bullet tore through his chest. He dropped his pistol at once, staring at Ian with shock and dismay, and he slowly collapsed onto the floor. "You," he choked out. Blood trickled out of his mouth. Ian watched him die. How many times had this man condemned him to hours of experiments and agony? He felt a cold satisfaction as the overseer fell against the security desk, and as the life fled him, Ian saw that flash of recognition in that cruel, silver eye, and he knew the Russian had recognized him at last.

There was a tense pause. "Come on," he snapped at Kalel. She stepped nervously from the safety of the hall. Ian didn't miss the way she flinched at the dead Russian's body and the blood pooling around his head; she was keeping her distance from Ian, very slightly so, as though she had just found another reason not to trust him. He stole the overseer's pistol, stowing it away in his pocket. After all, if he could make a bit more profit off of this damned job, he was going to do it.

He could hear more shouting and chaos in the entrance hallway, and with that, Ian realized there was another problem; the prisoners Kalel had insisted upon releasing had created a blockade when they encountered the Russians trying to track down Anthony. He froze, anger surging in the back of his mind. "Fuck," he breathed, listening to the panic beyond the hallway. There was a mass of bodies pressed up against each other – no way they were getting through that. He shot a glance toward the other door behind the security desk. "Do you still have that key?"

Kalel glanced down at her hand. "Yeah," she said. She held it out to him, uncurling her hand with difficulty. "But...those prisoners...they're not gonna know how to get away from those assholes."

"Tough." Ian took it and unlocked the door behind the desk.

She was silent for a moment. "How do you know this'll lead to an exit?" she asked.

"I just know," he snapped. The door swung open.

Kalel stepped forward, her face was a mask of wonder. "You've been here before," she said slowly.

Ian didn't answer. He didn't even look at her, and that was enough. The door had revealed a short passage with a sharp turn. They ran without looking back; Ian had no idea how much longer they had until the bomb went off. When the armed door came into view, Kalel hesitated, but Ian did not – he shoved it open. The alarm would have his ears ringing for hours. It was a high-pitched keen that would undoubtedly draw the attention of the Russians within; with luck, they would be too busy trying to rally the prisoners to notice.

He had never been so thankful for sunlight in his life. With Kalel trotting behind him, they hurried across the pavement. The door had brought them to an outdoor part of the prison where the inmates could have their laundry washed. It was obvious it hadn't been used since the takeover because the laundry room door was left wide open and all the machines within were long forgotten. Ian looked past the tiny building to the fence behind it. It was low enough to climb, but it was rigged with barbed wire at the top; not necessarily meant to keep prisoners within, because they couldn't get past the cell block door, but to discourage stupid kids from trying to climb over it for some fun.

Kalel hesitated at the sight of the barbed wire; Ian shoved her forward. When they reached the fence, he prepared to give her a boost. "Hurry up," he snapped, bending down and cupping his hands.

Her face was unreadable as she placed her boot into his hands. Gripping the fence for support as he lifted her up, she swung her leg over, carefully avoiding the barbed wire. She was moving too slowly. Ian watched with frustration while she gingerly ambled herself around the painful spikes, wincing whenever her skin came into contact with one of them.

He was not going to wait for her. That bomb was going to go off at any moment. Ian took a running jump at the fence and pulled himself up, linking his fingers painfully between the thin, chain-link wires; just as Kalel dropped down on the other side. She took a step back and watched him, her gaze flicking between him and the building behind them. He swung his right leg over the barbed wire, but did not get a chance to drop down.

There was a monstrous, resonating _boom. _All at once, the prison lit up with smoke and flames, shooting into the sky and sending debris flying. The shockwave hit him in the back. Ian had nothing with which to break his fall; he landed roughly on the pavement below. His side hit first; Ian felt the heel of his right hand scrape against the sidewalk. Pain exploded in his shoulder. Kalel was at his side as he swore and tried to collect himself.

"Are you all right?" she stammered. Her hands were shaking badly, trying to help him to his feet.

Ian grit his teeth. "Yes," he snapped. He had landed on the fucking shoulder where that shot had nicked him earlier that day. _Fuck. I bet the bleeding started again. _Sure enough, red had soaked his upper arm. He turned away from her before she noticed. Ian spared a glance at the prison and found it a smoldering mess of ruins. He hoped very few of the Russians within had escaped the blast.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. He wondered if she had ever been that close to an explosion like that. "Those prisoners – do you think they –"

"_Kalel!_"

The woman at his side let out a shriek of joy at the sight of her husband emerging from the path of the main entrance, splitting away from a few of the prisoners who had somehow made it out. Ian wished he could be anywhere else as they embraced tightly, quite forgetting he was standing there and the explosion that had taken place behind them, as though there was no one else in the world but those two. He said distastefully, "I see you made it out."

Anthony broke away from Kalel and shot him a glance. There was suspicion on his face. "Yeah. Just before that bomb went off, I see."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. The place needed to be taken out, in any case."

"Wait," Kalel said sharply, "you set that bomb when you _knew _Anthony was still inside the prison?"

Ian fixed her with a level gaze. "Oh, yeah. Guess I did. And I guess he got lucky."

Kalel had begun to swell with rage, but Ian was already walking back to the car, leaving them with no choice but to follow him.

The second reunion was just as sickeningly joyful. Emily burst out of the car and cried, "Mom!" as Kalel let out a choked sob and held her daughter. David was watching Ian. Ian moved past the scene, reaching for the driver's side door of the Subaru.

"Your arm's bleeding," David told him.

Ian paused, his eyes flicking over to him. "Yeah," he muttered. He looked at Anthony and Kalel as they approached the car. "You two might want to stay hidden for a little while until all of this dies down. They probably won't be looking for you, but you never know. Since that's the case, I'd recommend _you_ bring me my reward," he continued, nodding toward David. "I can give you my apartment number. Come by with the guns whenever, I don't fucking care..."

He ducked into the car without another word. This time, David rode in the passenger's side. Anthony, Kalel, and Emily walked silently around to the back, sliding wordlessly into their seats.

It wasn't until they had returned to the road that someone spoke. "Can someone explain to me what the _hell _is going on?" Kalel snapped at last. She pointed at Ian. "What is he doing here? How is he still alive? When did you find him? And why is he such an asshole now?"

David barked out a laugh. Ian saw Anthony pat his wife soothingly in the rear view mirror. "We'll explain it when we get home."

_Home. _Ian had no idea where that was for him anymore. He felt worn and drained as the last of the adrenaline faded away. He had somehow managed to destroy one of the worst sources of his nightmares that day, but he didn't feel any less angry. Ian hoped there were a few bottles of vodka hidden away in his second apartment, because he sure as hell needed them tonight.

* * *

A/N: I don't know why, but Ian &amp; Kalel interacting is always really funny to me. Originally, she wasn't going to hit him, but then the idea stuck in my mind &amp; I just couldn't get rid of it xD Poor Ian.

I've had the next chapter done for quite a while now :D To try &amp; speed this fic up, I'll post it in a couple days. Yay! It's a short one though, and shows what happens when David brings the guns to Ian. Oh dear.

Thanks for reading guys! I hope this chapter was worth the wait.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Merry Christmas guys! I hope you all had an awesome day &amp; got the Smosh 2015 calendar xD I haven't found it yet, unfortunately, but I'll keep looking!

I discovered a plot hole in this fic you could fly a plane through. But I sort of tried to write around it, &amp; the problem is addressed in this chapter; maybe you'll spot it lol, maybe not.

This is another one of those short, emotional chapters. Have some Iancorn (sorta) feels.

* * *

David was pretty sure he had the right door, despite having never been to Ian's apartment. But the door was not only unlocked, it was cracked open a couple inches, the lights inside dimly illuminating the dark hall. Though David had not spent much time with Ian since his reappearance, he had struck him as someone who paid attention to detail given the dire circumstances of his job. Surely he would not have made a mistake like this.

He knocked on the door. "Ian?" he said. There was no answer. He frowned at the portal, considering simply letting himself in. Ian had also seemed like someone who would shoot without asking any questions, and David could very easily see himself being accidentally murdered for breaking into his apartment. He knocked again, to no avail.

Telling himself that Ian might somehow need his help and probably wouldn't shoot him, David cautiously pushed the door open. "Ian?" he repeated, looking around the brightly lit apartment. It was well past midnight. How could he have forgotten to lock his door? He was almost inviting the Russians in to kill him. David frowned and glanced about the room for his friend.

When he saw him, he almost did not know who he was looking at. The crumpled figure sitting at the table surely could not have been him. But it was, his face hidden in the crevice of his arm, which lay on the table. His other hand clutched a half-empty bottle of vodka. David stared openly, the sight driving a knife into his heart. He was looking at someone who had been through too much – someone who had to turn to alcohol to deal with the pain of the past.

David swallowed. He closed the door behind him. Both Anthony and Joshua had mentioned something about his drinking, but David never imagined it was like this. He had no idea what to do – he didn't even know if Ian was aware he had arrived. If that bottle had been full before Ian had begun his marathon of alcohol, he would be completely lost to him.

Either way, the briefcase of guns was becoming unbearably heavy in his hand, and he needed to put it down soon. He moved hesitantly toward Ian. "Here's your reward," David said uncertainly, placing the briefcase gently on the table.

There was a pause. Then Ian turned his head away, fixing his lifeless gaze on the peeling wallpaper of the opposite wall. Well, at least David knew he was alive. His eyes were bloodshot, red contrasting startlingly against the blue.

Just hours before, the same person had been shooting Russians, blowing up a Russian base, and saving Kalel from a terrible fate. Now he was trying to drink his weight in vodka and completely unresponsive. David wasn't completely sure what he had been through – he didn't have the complete story as to why Ian had disappeared for six years, leaving the rest of them unaware that he was still alive. He was hurting; it had been obvious to David when he had first met up with him again just a couple days before. Too many tragedies in too little time.

David knew Ian wouldn't tell him exactly what had happened to him, but maybe he could try to help him through this particular episode. He pulled a chair back and sat. Ian barely reacted. David noticed that his upper arm was still stained with red, and it was clear he hadn't tended to it when the wound reopened.

He wondered uncomfortably if he was overstaying his welcome; he was just supposed to drop off the guns, after all. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked, and received no answer. He should have expected as much. David remembered very well when Ian was happy, talkative, and funny, and in just six years he was unrecognizable.

He needed to find something that would distract him – something that would pull him out of this. He seemed to enjoy causing trouble for the Russians. Maybe the topic would distract him from whatever was plaguing him. "Kalel says you saved her from one of the Russian officials in that prison. You're a good shot." He neglected to mention that Ian had driven straight to his apartment and told the four of them that they could get themselves home. Kalel and Anthony had been livid; what the hell was the point of the rescue if they just became captured again getting back? David had tried to reason with both parties to prevent another conflict, but Anthony had had enough of Ian, and the other couldn't wait for them to leave. In the end, David had followed along silently as Anthony and Kalel bitched about everything they could regarding the new Ian. Emily was kept close. She looked about as uncomfortable about the whole thing as David felt.

Almost pointedly, Ian raised the bottle of vodka and took a drink. David took the hint. He didn't want to talk about the war. It had been a mistake to bring up the killings; he should have realized that. David needed to find something normal. Something that they could have talked about during the easier days, years ago before the invasion.

He swallowed. The topic he had decided on was painful for him; he hadn't seen his family in two years. But maybe, somehow, talking about them like they had not been sent away would help his friend. He might need that bottle of vodka after this, though. "I taught my kid how to play catch. He'll be a great baseball player someday."

There was, of course, no chance that his son would ever play baseball – there would not be a baseball game in a long, long time. But Ian met his gaze. "Really," he said, his voice slightly muffled.

"Yeah," said David, relief washing over him. "He throws pretty well. I'm thinking outfield. Right field."

Some clarity had returned to his eyes. His brow furrowed, and he blinked slowly, trying to focus on David and the conversation. "How long has it been since you've seen them?"

David suddenly wished he could have some of that vodka, too. He felt his eyes start to burn. "Three years," he choked out.

Ian took another long gulp. When he lowered the bottle, his eyes were glassy again. "We've all lost people," he muttered, his words horribly slurred. "I have too, you know."

"Yeah. James, I think was his name." David swallowed uncomfortably. "I didn't really know him, but he seemed like a good guy. I'm sorry he didn't make it."

"But Anthony's kid did." Ian let out a hollow laugh. "I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. I never should have saved her."

"Because you still care," said David softly. "You're still a good person, even if you don't want to admit it. Look at Anthony's family. You saved his wife and daughter in the same day. He owes you for so much."

Ian looked at him. His blue eyes were lost and haunted, a tortured look to someone who had once been so happy and full of life. He took another swig of vodka before David could stop him and lay his head down in his arms. "He certainly does," Ian muttered. David looked at him worriedly; he was saying all the wrong things, making it worse for him. He had to have known that Ian was still pissed at Anthony - why the hell had he mentioned his name? David opened his mouth to apologize, but Ian continued to speak. "I blew up that prison to try and bring myself some peace," he said quietly. "That's what I wanted, what I tried to do, and look at me now..."

"Ian," David said quickly; he had no idea what to do, what to say. He had no idea Ian was this messed up. What the hell could he do to help him?

"I shouldn't have helped Anthony," he murmured.

Even though David had come to expect it, it still hurt to see Ian speak so indifferently about the man who had once been his best friend. "Anthony didn't want to leave you there six years ago," he blurted out. Ian's eyes snapped around to look at him. "He just made a mistake. He thought you were dead, after all – he saw you get shot."

There was a long pause. David wondered Ian had forgotten he was there, but suddenly he was speaking again, resentful and beaten. "Is that what he told you?" he muttered, so quietly David almost didn't hear him. His old friend's eyes were glassy. "I've lost more than just James," he muttered before David could speak.

"Other gunrunners?" he guessed.

The other man gripped the bottle. David wanted to rip it out of his hands, as he had no idea how damaged his liver was already, but he didn't want to risk an explosion of rage. Ian closed his eyes, his posture slumped and defeated. "No," he said quietly, his voice almost made inaudible by his arms. "No. I've lost her, David. She's gone. She's not coming back. They killed her."

The words hit him like a slap. David's mouth was suddenly dry. "Who?" he said, but he had a pretty good idea. "Who's gone?"

Ian didn't answer. His breathing had drifted into the gentle rhythm of sleep. David stood up and gently pried the bottle of vodka from his fingers; he dumped what was left of it into the sink and hid the bottle in the cupboards. Hopefully, Ian would forget David was ever there and assume he had drunk through the whole thing. David then grabbed a tattered blanket from the dingy armchair and placed it over his old friend's shoulders. He didn't really want to leave. It had never been more obvious that his friend needed help, but Ian had never been the type to talk about what was on his mind, even before all of this happened. He was as stoic and distant as ever, and now it had been made worse by the harshness of the past six years.

It went against his every instinct when David quietly closed the apartment door behind him, leaving Ian to sleep in peace. David would not tell Anthony what he had learned. Ian would probably kill him. No, his secrets would be his to tell, when he felt he was ready. He could only hope that Ian would be in a better state of mind to continue surviving in this new, fucked up world.

* * *

A/N: First plot arc complete. Yay!

Next time: Second &amp; final plot arc begins. New complications are introduced to bring everyone back together again xD Wow, that was vague, but I don't want to give too much away.

Thanks for reading guys! I hope you liked the sorta-Iancorn :D


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Another short but hopefully interesting chapter lol. Enjoy :D

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April 28th, 2019

"Mr. Ovenshire!"

The second blast rocked the halls of the hospital. Joshua grabbed the young nurse's arm, steadying her before she fell. She stumbled, clinging to his arm, and he could feel her shaking. "Are we being attacked?" he asked, and his voice was so strangely calm he surprised himself.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and terrified. "The Russians," she stammered. "We're evacuating. Please – get out while you can!" And she ripped free of his arm and hurried down the hall, stepping carefully around stretchers and carts.

Joshua made a move to follow her, but something froze him to the spot. Mari still lay in her hospital room, unaware and immobile. He was _not _leaving without the woman he had been charged with taking care of for three years. He turned abruptly on his heel and sprinted down the opposite hall – away from salvation. He could barely hear his own footsteps over the bombs striking other parts of the hospital. Other people rushed past him; people who had been there only to take care of others, often receiving little reward for their efforts, and now their lives were in danger because of some cowards. Cowards who had targeted a hospital where innocents hurt in acts of war attempted to recover. Joshua had seen enough, however, to know that this was only the beginning of their depravity. It took him just a few seconds to find her room, having been there many, many times before. What was he going to do if he was too late and the Russians' bombs broke through? Was he really going to get himself killed for someone who had been comatose for three years?

_Yes. _Joshua set his jaw as he cleared the doorway. Anthony and David would kill him anyway if he didn't make an effort to save her. He darted about, carefully removing IVs, blankets, and other medical equipment from her, before he bent down and scooped her up in his arms. She was disturbingly light, her head lolling limply and her lank hair draping over his upper arm. He looked into her sunken, ashen face. _I've looked after you for three years, Mari. I'm not going to stop now just because the hospital is about to explode. _

Another horrible, resonating _boom_ shook every wall around him. _Although maybe I should have, _he thought meekly. With that in mind, Joshua took off for the exit.

Doctors and patients alike were in various states of panic around him, all trying to hurtle over one another to get the hell out of the hospital. Joshua knew many of them; these were people he had worked with for years, but he couldn't prioritize them, not now. His job was to get Mari out of there safely. So he braved the crowd, dodging and weaving where he could, with Mari still and silent in his arms. Every one in a while, he would glance at her face, hoping to find her eyes open and aware, her face confused, searching. But he found the same stillness he had looked at for three years.

By the time he ran out of the hospital, his arms were aching. Joshua hurried down the steps, careful not to miss one, and that was when the last bomb hit.

It felt as though someone had shoved him in the back. He pitched forward, twisting around so Mari would not take the brunt of the fall – his shoulder hit the asphalt and the shock forced him to release her at once. She was ripped from his arms and Joven skidded on his shoulder, coming to an abrupt stop that had him rolling onto his stomach. As his entire right side throbbed, Joshua raised his head. For a moment, even with the chaos, a strange silence had settled over the area. The cool asphalt beneath him reflected the flames on the hospital roof as they rose into wisps in the dark sky. Joshua was not looking at what had once been a thriving hospital, nor did he search for their attackers. Instead, he looked for Mari.

Joshua had only one working eye, as his glasses had been knocked askew by the fall. He tried to raise an arm to correct them, but there was a shooting pain through his shoulder and the thought was forgotten. Mari lay maybe eight feet away, a crumpled figure before the broken hospital. Seeing her lying there, helpless and immobile, sent a flash of pain through him that had nothing to do with his shoulder. Joshua attempted to rise once more.

When he was met with another terrible shooting pain, he began to suspect he had injured his shoulder far more seriously than he realized, but he stopped only when several dark figures moved into view. They had rounded the far side of the hospital and strode toward them, their forms made into silhouettes by the flames. Russians – coming to investigate the damage and salvage supplies. Joshua collapsed at once. His head slammed into the ground in his urgency to pretend to be dead, the right side of his face pressed against the asphalt. He could feel the frame of his glasses digging into the side of his face as he stared at Mari's crumpled body through eyes as open as he dared.

_I'm playing dead. I'm playing dead. God, don't let them come near me, please. _Joshua's heart beat painfully in his chest. Mari would be fine. She was beyond his help anyway; there was nothing he could do if the Russians decided to target her. Joshua's skin was coated in a cold sweat, and his arm was wedged uncomfortably beneath his ribs, but he didn't move. To move meant death. But he kept his mostly closed eyes on Mari. He was meant to watch her, meant to protect her, and if keeping an eye on her was the very least he could do, Joshua was going to do it.

But it seemed fate had a very different plan for him, and it was unfortunate that Joshua happened to see it. Mari's hand twitched very, very slightly. It was as though that tiny movement sent an electric shock through his system; Joshua jerked his head up, staring at her, disbelieving, stunned. "Mari?" he cried. Her fingers stretched very slightly, as though reaching for him, but her face was still and lifeless.

It might have been something short of a miracle, and besides finding Ian, had been the best news he had received in six years – but he had still given himself away. The Russian men shouted and hurried over to his crumpled form. Panic burst in his heart when they grabbed his arms, dragging him to his knees – one of them kicked him squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. They asked him questions in a language he couldn't hope to understand, and on the next blow, his glasses were torn from his ear. There was a horrible crunch of cartilage in front of his face as his nose broke. They let him go. Joshua fell onto all fours, blood dripping into his hand.

The men were laughing, jeering. His broken nose burned and his ribs ached. Joshua glanced up, searching for Mari, but he was nearly blind without his glasses. He could barely see the men standing around him as it was. _Keep her safe, _he prayed, as a knee came up and struck him in his freshly broken nose.

Stars exploded in his eyes. Joshua collapsed, his vision swam, and suddenly he lost track of where he was. He wasn't sure when they had dropped him again, but suddenly he was lying on the pavement once more. He also wasn't sure if the gunshots he heard were real or if he thought them up, desperate for someone to save him. No, he couldn't focus on much at the moment. Pain overwhelmed his senses, and he lay there on the asphalt as the world dissolved into blackness around him.

* * *

April 30th, 2019

"Ah, Ian...come in."

Luke's smile was snake like, but he had always looked that way. Ian stepped inside the office. It wasn't very impressive yet; there were a few guns on display to entice buyers and an even smaller variety of ammunition. The tiny, stifling room, with its drawn shades and shabby wallpaper, was clearly still in the process of getting used to its new owners, as they hadn't cleaned up the blood splatters on the walls. Two men stood on either side of Luke like bodyguards. Ian moved to shut the door behind him, but he left it open an inch.

The bodyguards scowled down at him. "I was told you had a job for me," Ian said, looking at the guards with a rising sense of unease.

"Yes. That we do." Luke stirred his tea and gestured suddenly at the room. "It's not much, I know, but it's something. It's quite a leap from our little gunrunning days with James, isn't it?"

"I suppose," said Ian. He didn't like the look on Luke's face at all, but he was there for a job. He had been out of work for a couple weeks, trading guns and stealing to get by. He needed a job. Relying on Luke was dangerous, as the other gunrunner had a habit of rash decisions and shady dealings, however Ian's options were limited. Not many of the others were willing to work with him after what happened at their previous base.

Luke raised his tea and took a sip. "And for you, too, I think," he said. When Ian stared at him, he continued, "We found you rotting away in a Russian prison. You would be dead without us, and yet here you are."

"Do you have a job for me or not, Luke?" Ian snapped.

"Yes, actually." Luke leaned forward, knitting his fingers together and holding them beneath his chin. "It was inconvenient when you drew the Russians to the base and got James killed."

Anger rose in the back of his mind. His fists clenched. What the fuck was Luke doing? "That wasn't my –"

"You were the last one to return to the base. The Russians followed you." The other man's voice was sharp and loud. Then he smiled, and it was the most disgusting thing Ian had ever seen. "I'm willing to forgive you for that. See, I didn't like working there anyway. James didn't like my ideas of working with Russians to make more money, but here I'm free to do as I like." Ian froze, staring at Luke and trying to work out what he was trying to say, but he was torn from his thoughts when the bodyguards strode toward him. "Here, they paid me quite a lot to return their favorite prisoner to them."

"No!" Ian shouted as an icy hand seized his heart. He jerked back when the first Russian reached for him – but the other seized his arm, and the first did the same. Ian fought, struggling and writhing to free himself. Their hands were like vices on his arms, locking his hands behind his back.

Terror unlike anything he had ever experienced erupted in the back of his mind. The images and flashbacks had never been so vivid, not even when he had been within the very prison where he had met these men. They yanked him toward the hall. Luke waved mockingly after him. "Perhaps I'll come and visit you. It'll be just like old times," he said. When the door closed, Ian could hear him laughing.

The Russians tried to drag him into the hallway. Ian's heart was working like a piston in his chest. If he didn't escape now, he would end up back in the prison. The thought was terrifying enough to send his brain into a wild panic. _No!_ _I'm not going back! I can't – _Ian wrenched his right hand free, and for the moment it was unencumbered, he found the pistol in the waistband of his pants.

The Russians released him as soon as they realized he was armed. They threw their hands up in mercy, but Ian was scared and driven and fighting for his life. He was far beyond reasoning with them. He emptied almost the entire chamber of his pistol into both Russians. Ian was running before they even hit the ground.

Blind with panic, Ian sprinted down the stairs and out of the building. He disappeared into the crowd and even though he knew he was safe, he kept running. _Jesus fucking Christ. They almost had me. _Killing them had been unavoidable. His only regret was not killing Luke when he had the chance – Ian could think only of escaping the place where they had threatened to bring him back to that prison. The terror never completely left, even when he had crossed the lobby to his other apartment. He was living too close to Luke's enterprise – he needed to fix that immediately, find another place to live. He ran up the stairs and threw open the door.

Someone gave a start when he burst into the tiny living room. Ian let out a shout of panic and fumbled for his gun. "Whoa! Whoa, it's just me," Anthony said quickly, raising his hands.

This realization did nothing to calm his mental state. Ian lowered the gun, but very hesitantly. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?" he demanded. After the scare he'd just went through, Anthony was the last person he wanted to see.

"Which do you want me to answer first?" Anthony said wryly. Ian threw him an impatient glance and strode over to the coffee table, where a suitcase lay. He began tossing all of his dismantled guns and ammunition inside. "What are you doing?"

"Tell me what you want, dammit," Ian snapped, glancing up at him briefly. "I haven't thrown away the idea of shooting you."

Anthony narrowed his eyes. He crossed his arms, his head so bowed his chin rested on his collar, as though he had dire news. "I'm here because there was an attack on the hospital where Joshua works. The Russians decided their next move was to strike an innocent American hospital." He paused, waiting for Ian to comment, and Anthony let out an irritated sigh. "Aren't you going to ask how Joshua is?"

"How's Joshua?" Ian said through gritted teeth. He threw a part of a gun in the suitcase with unnecessary force.

"He was a little beat up, but he's going to be okay," said Anthony. "The military interfered and saved him. But I thought you might want to come back with me."

Ian snapped the suitcase shut. "And why the fuck would I do that?" he asked as he moved past him with the suitcase in hand, heading toward his bedroom.

"Don't be an asshole," Anthony shot back. "Because the doctors say Mari's about to wake up."

Ian froze. He had a hand on his bedroom door, about to push it open. His heart skipped several beats. "She is?" he said quietly.

"Yes," said Anthony. He heard him taking a step closer. "Joshua tried to get her out of the hospital when the Russians started their attack. He barely made it. Something about the trip seems to have restarted her brain and...she's doing a lot better. We've been waiting for her to wake up – David and I – and we thought you would want to be there too."

_Mari's gonna wake up. She's gonna be okay. _After he had learned what had happened to her, Ian had written her off as another loss. But she was coming back, for reasons he couldn't fathom – this wasn't a world worth coming back to. Ian knew at once he would accompany Anthony back to LA. He had made a promise to Melanie, after all. And Anthony might not have realized it, but he had just provided Ian with the escape he needed. Luke's men were after him. He needed to get far away from Anaheim, and no one would suspect that he had gone back to the people he so despised. "Yeah," Ian muttered, pushing open the bedroom door, "I'll go with you."

"Really?" Ian spared a glance at Anthony to find him frozen beside the dining table. "Wow, I didn't expect you to agree so easily."

Ian sent him a dark look as he threw some clothes into the suitcase. "I want to see her," he snapped.

"Good. I mean, I get that." Anthony tilted his head and fixed Ian with a searching gaze. "It's just...what I've seen of you since you've reappeared...I expected you to put up more of a fight, I guess. You don't, uh...have a hidden agenda here, do you?"

Ian very nearly laughed out loud. _Now he learns caution. _"Not this time," he said.

Anthony blinked at him. He quickly rearranged his expression. "Oh. Well, uh, good. I'm sorry for being so suspicious, then."

He snapped the suitcase shut. It was an apology, but not the one he had been expecting for so long. "Can we leave now?" he asked. He didn't want to stay in Anaheim any longer than he had to, not with Luke's men searching for him. And Ian didn't want to miss Mari waking up.

"Yeah. That might be best. Come on."

Ian followed Anthony out of the building and they caught a taxi shortly after leaving. The trip was spent in utter silence and fraught with tension, but for once Ian didn't care. He was going to see Mari again. He could put up with Anthony for a few hours.

* * *

A/N: Yay, Mari's waking up! :D

Next time: Mari makes her way properly into the story. Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This chapter ended up far more emotional than I originally intended lol. I also hope it reads okay. I'm still pretty tired from my first week back at uni &amp; I'm edited this in a sleepy haze.

Enjoy :)

* * *

The hospital room was grim and silent.

Ian could barely hear the bustling hospital behind them, and the scent of antibiotics and medicines seemed far away. The young woman lying in the bed lay there unmoving, an IV in her arm and an oxygen mask over her face. She looked nothing like the lively girl he remembered. She had been a dancer. She had loved to rock climb. Now she was trapped within herself, unable to communicate, to rise, to move at all. Ian had never felt so guilty. _I should have been there, Mari, _he thought. _I'm so sorry. I should have been there._

She was still young. She shouldn't have been lying in a hospital bed like an old woman about to die. If Ian had been there from the beginning, would it have made a difference? Would he have been able to save her from whoever had attacked her? He shook his head very slightly; those were questions he couldn't bother with at the moment. Mari was supposed to be waking up soon. She simply needed him to be there for her instead of dwelling on mistakes from the past.

Anthony and David were silent, too, looking down at her with haunted, sad eyes. It was becoming easier to be in the same room with his former friend; the memories were still there, nagging at him and threatening to push him into another flashback, but he was somehow able to keep them away. Mari was the focus here, not his own demons.

"Okay," Anthony said after a moment. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture slightly hunched. His tawny eyes flicked between the two of them. "We'll start keeping watch. Someone always has to be in here with her. Who wants the first watch?"

"I will," David volunteered at once. Ian had quickly learned that David was not the confident, funny person he used to be. Losing his family had given him a permanent darkness to his eyes, like a haze that couldn't be lifted, a constant worry over whether or not they were still okay – wherever his wife and son had ended up. It was a shadow with which none of them could help him.

The taller man nodded. "All right. And, Ian –" Ian scowled at him as Anthony met his eyes with the same expression. "If she wakes up on your watch, try not to be an asshole, all right?"

Ian was left seething, but even he would admit the warning had been deserved.

Waiting for someone to wake up from a coma was very boring. He had fallen asleep in the armchair beside Mari's bed more times than he cared to count. As the hours wore into days, he found himself drifting out of her room and back again, either for some food, a cigarette, or to drink. Anthony and David certainly would not approve of him disappearing on her every once in a while, but he was restless and couldn't help it. It was taking her so long to wake up he was becoming convinced it wouldn't happen. What the hell was he going to say to her when she finally did open her eyes? Ian seriously doubted that Mari would accept him back into her life after being absent for six years. She might hate him. She might never want to see him again.

And after keeping his distance from his old friends for so long, it was Mari he had missed the most.

Ian was returning from smoking his fifth cigarette of the day, ready for another few hours of sitting and waiting, when a nurse stopped him at Mari's door.

"Are you family?" she demanded in a dark voice. She was too thin and harried, a direct result of the harsh life of the last six years.

He stared at her. He'd never been asked this when spending time there before. "Uh, sort of," he said.

"Well, you don't look it. She's awake now. Are you going to see her?"

"She's awake?" Something seized his heart and Ian froze, but only for a second.

Mari had her eyes closed, but she opened them when he pushed past the nurse. For a moment, the two of them stared at one another. There was something very impassive and vague about the way she looked at him; even from this distance, Ian could see a dreamlike haze in her eyes, as though she wasn't quite sure if she had returned to reality. Now that she was awake, the decrepit state of her body had never been more obvious. The hospital gown looked huge and baggy on her. Her exposed arms looked thin and brittle.

Her face was impassive, simply watching him, observing him. He swallowed nervously and sat in the armchair. Her narrowed, stony eyes had followed his movement. They were like chips of obsidian, watery and never still. "Hi, Mari," he said softly. "Do you...do you know who I am?"

She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes seemed to search his face, examining it. He could not see a flicker of recognition in her expression, but she swallowed several times before saying in a weak, raspy voice, "You look like Ian." His heart lurched, but he kept his face neutral. Her eyes closed briefly, as though the mere act of speaking had taken a lot of energy from her. Then she added tonelessly, "But that's impossible. He died three years ago."

_Three _years...He swallowed hard. "Yeah. It...it's me, Mari."

"No, you're not. You can't be." Her voice became stronger the more she denied his words. She shook her head. The nurse had given her a flimsy cup of water, and she clutched it tightly, almost crushing it. Her tone was harsh and firm when she spoke again, as though she had gone to great lengths to accept her next words as truth. "Anthony said you died."

He should have expected this, but it still hurt to hear her say it. And he had no one to blame but himself. Ian drew back and wondered how he would explain the inaccuracies of her claim. He suddenly realized what a mistake it had been having him there instead of Anthony or David. She had been in a coma for three years. It wouldn't do her any good seeing a man she thought was long dead.

Should he go get them? Should he try to convince her? It was so difficult to think under the scrutinizing, dreamlike gaze with which she had trapped him.

"It is," he said softly. "I didn't die."

Mari frowned. She raised herself as high as her recovering body would allow. Not wanting her to overtax herself, Ian moved his chair closer to her bed. There was something strange in her eyes as she looked him over again. It was as though she was trying to convince herself she wasn't looking at a ghost. Her expression changed very little.

She sat back. "You look older."

Ian let out a short, humorless laugh. "Thanks," he said.

"I don't understand," she mumbled. She glanced around again. "Why am I in a hospital? Did I die – is that why you're here, because you're dead too?"

He swallowed again, but leaned forward. He very much wished that someone else was there to explain what had happened. It should not have been him. The others – besides Sohinki, of course – had been the ones looking after her these past years. He, meanwhile, had been trying to stay alive, making a living killing Russians and taking their guns. It should not have been him, but he was there, and she had already asked the heavy question. "You're not dead," he said, "and neither am I. You're here because you were attacked. You got hurt. You've been recovering ever since."

She just looked at him. There was a sudden clarity to her eyes, a fog that had lifted. "You are Ian – aren't you?" she said slowly.

He swallowed a sigh, wondering if she had listened anything he had just said. "Yes."

Her brow furrowed, and she looked him over, eyeing the differences the years had inflicted. "What happened?" she said. Her voice had gone raspy and soft, and she hastened to take another drink of water. "Anthony said you…you were shot. You didn't make it out of LA, did you?"

Ian dropped his gaze. They weren't supposed to be talking about him. He should have known seeing him again would cause her some unrest, but she had been in a coma for the last three years. She needed to know what was going on. "I did get shot, but I…escaped. I got out of LA and I've been living in Anaheim. That's all that really matters."

"You didn't tell us you were still alive," she said, layering her voice harshly. "You kept us in the dark. We thought you were dead for so long."

"I know," Ian heard himself say. A strange numbness had gripped his heart. He had never felt ashamed of what he had done until he saw all of Mari's hurt and anger. "It was wrong of me. I'm sorry."

Mari watched him. Her dark eyes were glassy, her complexion sickly and ashen; and yet he nearly buckled under the intensity of her gaze. "Why?" she said at last. "Didn't you...didn't you think that we might have wanted to see you? That _I _might have wanted to see you? When Anthony told me you were gone, I remember I just fell apart. They had to stay with me the entire night until I stopped crying."

He had to swallow before he could speak. "It was complicated, Mari. I regret it now. I just...I didn't want to see any of you."

She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. He understood her, he really did; she was tired of his evasive replies. It gave her no reason to put her faith in him. "Where's Joshua?" she demanded. "He was the one looking after me, wasn't he?"

_How could she know that? _Ian wondered if she had been partially conscious throughout the years, aware of who had been taking care of her for so long. "He's...in another hospital room," he told her gently. "He got hurt trying to get you out of the last hospital."

"What?" Mari's dainty, feeble hands gripped the linen sheets. "Is he okay?"

"I'm told he will be," Ian said.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "What else aren't you telling me? Where's Sohinki? He's the one you found me, you know. He should be here."

_Oh God. _Ian suddenly felt as though he had been kicked in the chest. The last thing she needed to hear was that her dearest friend would never come visit see her in the hospital. "Mari," he began gently; he did not miss the flash of pain in her eyes, as though she knew what he was going to say. It was so difficult to talk to her, to speak like he wasn't trying to scam her of her money or guns – it had been a very, very long time since he'd had to attempt to comfort someone. He had never wanted to leave a room so badly before. "Sohinki disappeared. Joshua and David have tried to track him down, but...no one has seen him for a long time."

Mari just looked at him. He could not imagine what was going on in her head. "How long?" she demanded.

_She knows, _Ian thought numbly. _She knows that Sohinki was the one who brought her here; she suspects that he hasn't been seen since, and I just told her that was a long time ago...fuck. _"Three years," he choked out.

There was a tense, resonating silence, as though a bomb had gone off but neither had paid any attention. Mari's eyes shone; tears ran in twin rivulets down her ashen face, but she did not outright sob. "I don't believe you," she said, her voice surprisingly strong. "I don't. You're lying." Ian said nothing; his silence only seemed to anger her. Her brows pulled together and her eyes flashed. "Who else is here? Who else can I talk to?"

"Anthony and David," Ian said gently.

"Bring them here. I don't want to see you. Get out!"

Her voice lashed out like a crack of lightning. Ian got to his feet and walked quickly from the hospital room, his mind strangely blank. He found David and Anthony talking quietly beside a vending machine, awaiting their turn to watch over Mari. Ian approached them and gave them the news they had been waiting for. "She's awake. She's asking for you," he told them, his voice devoid of emotion.

For a moment, both men looked ecstatic. Then Anthony studied him, catching the expression on his face. His eyes hardened. "What did you tell her?" he demanded.

"The truth," Ian said shortly. He walked around an armchair and sat heavily upon it; he drew a cigarette from the depths of his coat and lit up.

David and Anthony exchanged a glance, but neither knew what to say. They left without another word. Within minutes, Ian could hear Mari's sobs from her room as her visitors confirmed what he had attempted to tell her. He took another long drag on the cigarette. His anxiety and panic were acting up. For some reason, the guilt associated with what had happened to Mari had forced some of his issues to arise, as though he was meeting with Anthony all over again. After all he had done, Ian could not believe that lying to Mari was the one thing that could make him feel guilty. Words echoed in his mind. _You're still a good person,_ he heard the voice say, but he could not recall the speaker.

Either way, the panic was building, and the single cigarette wasn't enough to calm it. Ian left the room abruptly in search of a bottle of vodka.

* * *

With David and Anthony occupied elsewhere, Ian wandered through the hospital, half-heartedly searching for someone. The previous couple days had been a blur; mostly because he had spent almost an entire day drunk. When Anthony had realized Ian was far too intoxicated to remain at the hospital, David had helped him to his apartment in south district, then his old friend returned to care for Mari. Kalel had not been pleased to find Ian asleep on her couch.

The conversation between them that had followed was interesting, to say the least. Emily had attempted to shyly thank him for saving her mother, and when Ian brushed her off, Kalel had snapped at him.

"You really can't help being an asshole, can you?" she had growled after shooing Emily to her room. She was occupied at the kitchen counter, busily scrubbing dishes and putting them away. The sorry state of their little apartment did not really bother him. It was to be expected in this new world, and Ian had lived in far worse. It was strange, though, to find himself back in his best friend's apartment, where he was not only unwanted, he was hated and feared.

He sent her a mocking smirk. "I guess not."

Kalel grit her teeth and scrunched the wash cloth into a little ball. "Jesus Christ. Get out of my apartment."

"Gladly."

Ian got to his feet, and just as he reached for the door, Kalel spoke again. "Ian, wait."

"I thought you wanted me gone," he said slyly, turning around.

Her demeanor had changed from an angry housewife to a young woman not quite sure of herself. She bit her lip, her eyes fixed on the floor. Ian felt his interest sharpen. He let go of his mocking air and listened. "I want a gun," she said.

He released the doorknob. "You want a gun," he repeated. "Kalel, if you wanted to shoot me, you could have just told me."

"Most of us aren't happy you're back, you know that?" she snapped. But her courage had returned. Ian was suddenly reminded of the bold young woman who had insisted on releasing every single person from the prison. Kalel placed her hands on her hips, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "Look. I have a little girl to look after. I _can't _get caught again. I'd sooner shoot the Russian trying to capture me than let myself get caught. So let me have a gun, dammit."

"And you think I have one on me?" Ian said dryly.

"Yes," she said at once. Her eyebrows rose. "You're a gunrunner. I would assume so."

Despite having teased and mocked her for this particular encounter, Ian was still very hesitant to let her have her own gun. He had seen a thousand things go wrong, and he had not rescued both mother and daughter to lose them to a lack of gun knowledge. "Do you know the first thing about gun safety?" he said.

"I have people I can ask," she said coolly. "Now, I'd guess I'd have to pay you."

"You would be right," he said.

Kalel walked over to the kitchen, stood on her tip-toes to reach the highest cupboard, and brought out two large bottles. Ian's heart skipped a beat when he realized they contained vodka. "I'll be willing to part with these."

"That's not fair," Ian growled, eyeing the bottles with both distaste and longing.

She shrugged. "I got them as a gift from a neighbor, but neither of us drink. Thought I'd save them if I ever needed to bribe an alcoholic. So what do you say? I'm thinking I might keep one if we don't reach a deal soon."

Ian shut his eyes briefly. His hangover was back with a vengeance. "That's not _fair,_" he repeated. "You can't just use someone's addiction like that..."

"Then give me a gun." Kalel raised the bottles, her mouth scrunched up smugly to the side.

There was a tense pause. Ian glared at Kalel and she glared right back. With a scowl, he grabbed the suitcase and flipped it open over the dining table. He sifted through his clothes and other, more lethal guns, until he brought out the pistol he was looking for. Kalel had wandered closer to him, eyeing the guns within curiously. "This isn't loaded," he told her, placing the 9mm carefully in her hand. Her fingers closed around the grip. He fished around in the suitcase until he withdrew the correct ammunition. "And here are some rounds for it. Don't go messing around with it until someone shows you how it works. It's not a toy; you need to be aware that you can _kill _someone with this. Respect it as much as a life means to you."

Kalel turned the gun over in her hands. "Yeah," she muttered. "Can we keep this between us?"

"Whatever, sure," Ian said, making a move to close the suitcase, but he paused. "Do I get my alcohol?"

She retrieved the bottles from the counter and handed them over. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"Yeah." Ian placed the bottles into his suitcase and closed it once more.

"I _am _sorry for hitting you when you were trying to rescue me," she said without warning. Before Ian could retort, she went on, "I guess I never did thank you for getting me out of that prison. Perhaps vodka isn't the best way to say my thanks, but maybe it would be better if I simply let you know that I am grateful."

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, most are. Can I go?"

Kalel rolled her eyes. "Yes. Get out."

And with that, Ian had found himself back at the hospital.

He didn't like hospitals. With its individual rooms and fancy equipment and people running around in white coats, Ian was reminded unpleasantly of the prison. _The prison that doesn't exist anymore, _he thought bitterly as he walked through the halls. _Because I blew it up, dammit. And it still bothers me. _Ian didn't like seeing the patients' injuries, either. He had seen a lot worse, of course, but every time he saw someone with a bullet in their chest, it just brought him back in time again. Not even a month ago he wouldn't have been able to be in the same place as Anthony, but here he was, working alongside him to help Mari recover. _I guess that's some progress. _

Ian paused beside a hospital room door. He could see a black-haired man cleaning his glasses, his nose bandaged and his arm in a sling. Before he could talk himself out of it, Ian pushed the door open.

Joshua turned toward him, squinting, and when he put his glasses back on his face, his mouth spread into a huge grin. "Ian! You came back! I _knew _we could get you to come back. Anthony didn't believe me, but I kept bugging him about it, and here you are!"

His old friend's greeting was so genuine even Ian felt warmed. But he couldn't return his smile. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, gesturing to the bedside chair. Ian sat, and Joshua sat back in the bed, happy to have a visitor. "They say I'm getting better, so I believe them. The broken nose is the only thing that really bothers me. Does my voice sound weird cuz I'm all plugged up? I swear it sounds weird."

Ian looked at him. Out of all of them, it seemed that Joshua had changed the least. The last time Ian had seen him, he had very nearly shot him after completely losing his temper – it was amazing to see how tolerant Joshua was of such things. In the midst of this post-apocalyptic hellhole their world had become, Ian was strangely grateful the others still had him. "It sounds fine," he said.

"Anyway, I heard Mari woke up. Tell me everything," Joshua demanded.

His words stirred something like unease in his gut. Ian tilted his head. "You haven't seen her?"

"No," the other man grumbled. "Anthony doesn't want me leaving the hospital room. He seems to think my injuries are far worse than they really are and I'll keel over if I leave the bed."

_And yet you're the one who's been taking care of her all these years, _Ian thought. "I was the first to see her after she woke, but Anthony and David might be the ones to ask. I haven't seen her since."

"Ah." Joshua nodded quickly, drumming his fingers on his thigh. "What was she like when she woke up?"

"Confused," Ian said grimly. "It really shouldn't have been me there first. She had it firmly planted in her mind that I was dead, so when she saw me, she was sure she had died too."

The other man shook his head. "Yeah...I figured that would happen. Maybe she's doing better, though. Can you go find Anthony or David and ask? I'd really like to hear how she's doing."

"Haven't they been here?" asked Ian.

Joshua shrugged, then winced visibly as the movement pained his freshly set dislocated shoulder. "Well, they've been busy with Mari. You know. She's more important at the moment, after all – I'm not the one who's been asleep for three years." He gave a weak chuckle Ian didn't buy.

It took him a moment to realize Ian felt sorry for him. "I'll report back," he told him with a dry air, but he felt uneasy. Anthony and David hadn't been to see Joshua recently? Really? How could they have forgotten him when Joshua was the one who had saved Mari from the hospital?

His old friend sent him a grateful glance. "Thanks. So what else did you tell her?"

Ian hesitated. "She asked about Sohinki," he said slowly.

Joshua's head snapped around, and it had him wincing again. "Oh, no. You...you told her the truth, right? I guess that's the best you could have done."

"I did," Ian said grimly. "She figured out from there just how long she's been asleep."

"Ahhh..." The other man groaned and placed his head in his more usable hand. "Well...I guess she needed to know. But damn – I did not want her finding out about that so quickly."

Ian shifted guiltily in his seat. "Yeah," he muttered. He could not forget the fury in Mari's eyes. Not even Joshua had been that angry, and he had been the first to discover Ian was still alive.

There was a pause. Ian found himself searching for a way to escape this room without hurting Joshua's feelings. Joshua spoke up suddenly. "Uh, hey Ian."

He raised his eyes, fixing Joshua with an expectant gaze.

Joshua wrung his hands. "Well...it's just...you've done some pretty awesome things since we've found you. You saved Emily. You helped them rescue Kalel. They owe you a lot because you can do a lot – you're pretty damned useful, and well..." Joshua ran a hand awkwardly through his hair as Ian watched him ramble. When the former gamer looked at him, his eyes were full of purpose. "I was wondering if you could help us find Sohinki."

Ian sat back in his chair, his eyes on the floor. _I should have expected that, _he thought bitterly. "I don't know," he began.

"I know we would have to pay you – I think I have some friends who have some guns lying around, and they'd probably be willing to part with them. But Ian, come on – you're the only one we know with the connections and expertise needed for something like this. You can find him. I know it."  
Joshua looked so full of hope, his eyes shining as he held his injured arm close, there was not much else Ian could say. "Once we know Mari is going to be okay," he said, "I'll give it a shot."

The other man almost sagged with relief. "Oh, good. I really miss him, you know. We all do."  
"Yeah," Ian muttered, beginning to feel uncomfortable. He got to his feet. Joshua frowned as his eyes followed the movement. "I'm going to check on Mari, okay?"

"Yes! Let me know how she is," Joshua said. He had attempted to point with the injured arm; he lowered it, wincing visibly. "And think about what I said."

Ian nodded once, but he suddenly couldn't stand to be there any longer. "I will," he promised quietly. He pushed open the door and left.

_So now I have to find Sohinki, _Ian thought as he walked back down the hall. It was far more likely he would be searching for a corpse. The odds that someone who had disappeared three years ago was still alive were very slim; with the exception of himself, of course, but he had people looking out for him. Sohinki was smart, but the world was harsher, especially toward Jews. Ian wondered if the others missed Sohinki more than they had ever missed him.

He shook the thought from his mind as he stepped inside Mari's room. Ian had been avoiding her for a couple days, allowing David and Anthony to help her through the shock of learning that she had missed three years of her life, but he had not come all this way to hide from someone he had missed so dearly. He was going to get Mari to talk to him, whether she liked it or not.

It was a promising sight when Mari's eyes softened upon noticing him. David and Anthony sat in chairs on either side of her bed. "Oh. Ian," Anthony said, sitting up in his surprise. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I want to talk to Mari," he said. In hindsight, Ian realized that he should have _asked _instead of _demanded, _but it had been a very long time since he'd had to make a request without being able to shoot if things did not work in his favor.

Anthony scowled, and his eyes darted first to David, then to Mari.

"It's fine," she said quickly. "Really," she added, noticing Anthony's suspicious gaze.

"We won't be far away," David promised her.

Ian watched them fawn over her with an increasing sense of impatience. "Check on Joshua, while you're out," he told them. "He could use the company."

Even he didn't miss the guilt on David's face and the shock on Anthony's. David recovered first, nodding once. "Good idea," he said. "Come on, Anthony."

Anthony sent him a look that clearly stated, _Don't be an asshole, _and then promptly left. Ian and Mari were left alone.

She looked better. She really did. Even a couple days after waking up from a three year coma, she was already starting to look like the young woman Ian remembered. The color had begun to return to her face. Her eyes were far clearer, and they watched him carefully as he sat in David's empty seat. She had gained a little weight back. Someone had even brushed her hair, bringing a glossy shine to the black locks that had hung lank not long ago. "How are you feeling?" he asked her.

Mari let out a sharp exhale, like a weak snort, and shook her head dryly. "Oh, I don't know; other than finding out I've lost years off my life, you mean? Just peachy."

"I see your sarcasm is back," he said. A smile had worked its way onto his face. "You must be fine."

"Ha, ha. Thanks." She returned his grin with a sad smile. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"I shouldn't have told you that so soon after you'd woken up," said Ian. "I should have known it would upset you."

She shrugged. "Yeah, well. It did. I had to be told somehow. Anthony seemed to think I shouldn't be allowed to see you anymore because it upset me so much." She rolled her eyes. "I told him I was going to have to deal with things one way or another, and cutting me off from one of my closest friends wasn't going to help."  
"He can be an idiot sometimes," Ian said, and the understatement almost hurt to state.

"That's true. His daughter's name is Emily, isn't it?" Her eyes flicked to Ian's for confirmation, and he nodded. "I thought so. She was just a toddler when I last saw her. She was so sweet and cute. She kept calling me Mowie." Mari let out a lilting laugh, and even he had to smile. "I guess she's not a toddler anymore, though."

Mari's face fell. Ian swallowed hard. "No. She isn't."

She tilted her head, placing a hand at the base of her hairline, as though struck with a sudden headache. "I _am _still mad that you didn't tell us you were alive. So, let me get this straight – you spent _six _years hiding in Anaheim while we were certain you had died?"

"Mari..." His heart began to pound frantically, and when he opened his mouth, his instincts screamed at him not to speak. "If you knew what I had been through over those years...you would understand."

Something close to sympathy flashed in those dark eyes, but then the suspicion returned. "But I _don't _know. Because you haven't told me."

"I can't easily talk about it," he admitted. "But it was...it was bad."

She tilted her head. Her gaze was searching and serious. "How bad?"

Ian hesitated. _I can't do this. I can't tell her. _The only person who had known all of what he had been through was James, and Ian was strangely grateful he was gone so his former boss wouldn't know so much about him. He hated being pitied. He hated being vulnerable.

But he did want Mari to trust him again.

Mari must have noticed his reluctance, because she took his hand and said gently, "Ian, you can tell me. Do you think you're the only one who's suffered? Don't you think I might be the only one you can relate to? The others won't be able to truly understand. They might sympathize, but I think I'm the one who can actually _help _you."

_Help me? _The notion was absurd. He couldn't be helped. He was so far gone that no one would have believed he was the same person. But Mari was right. If there was anyone who could relate to the hell he had gone through, it was her. Ian spoke in monotone, his voice trembling. "Mari, I'm not the same person you remember. I'm nowhere near it. I have nightmares. I've become an alcoholic. Just the thought of being near you all was enough to set off the panic." Ian let out a shaky breath. "It hasn't been easy. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me, but...I wasn't in any state to try and help anybody."

Mari's eyes ran over him again. This time, her expression morphed into that of shock, as she noticed not just what the years had inflicted, but the differences in his mannerisms, his pain, his sadness. She drew away from him as though really seeing him for the first time. "God," she said in a hushed whisper. "And yet you still came to see me when you heard I was waking up. Ian, what _happened _to you?"

"What happens to most people in this new world," he told her with a sad smile. "I went through some stuff I can't talk about. I lost everything, Mari. And it started with the day I supposedly died."

There was a tense moment of silence. Ian's heart was pounding, his instincts screaming, scolding him for being so open and honest with his past. But if anyone deserved to know why he had disappeared for so long, it was Mari. She had nothing to do with what Anthony had done. Instead, she had gotten hurt, and the one person she would have liked to see had allowed his friends to continue to believe he had died. "Anthony was lying," Mari ground out suddenly.

Ian said nothing.

"He told us he _saw _you get shot, but – he wasn't even there, was he?" She shot him a glance, as though he was the target of her anger.

Numbness crept its way down his limbs as he recalled that night. "I called him," Ian choked out. "He – he didn't want to leave his hiding spot. He had Kalel with him. He just said he was sorry."

"Oh my God." Mari let out a sob and scooted closer to him, and before he knew it, she had him trapped in a firm embrace. Ian froze in shock. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and she cried on his shoulder, even though it was not her pain; it was his, the agony he had tried to endure alone for six years. How could he have thought he could get through it on his own? Mari had enough sympathy to make up for Anthony's betrayal. "I'm so sorry," she stammered out.

Ian had not even realized he had returned the embrace. He didn't know what to say.

She drew away from him. Her eyes were red from crying as her hands gripped his shoulders, but there was a grim determination in her gaze. "It's not fair," she said bitterly. "There's nothing we can do now, anyway – it's done, you're here. You've been through hell, but you're here. I guess it...it could have been worse." Mari narrowed her eyes. "Does it – it gets worse, doesn't it?"

He offered her a weak smile. "Like you said...there's nothing we can do."

"Can you get better?" Mari asked. "Can I at least yell at Anthony?"

"I don't think that will help, but you're welcome to," he said. "And I don't know if I can get better. I'm not the same person."

He could feel her shaking, and when her back slumped slightly, Ian realized she was still too weak to stay upright for long. He stood and helped her back onto her pillows. "Thank you," she said, somewhat breathlessly. "I hope I get my strength back soon." Her eyes softened. "Will you...will you be here while I get better, Ian?"

_She's worried I'm going to disappear again. _Warmth spread in his chest as his throat tightened painfully. "Of course," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Mari gave him a relieved smile. "See?" she said gently. "You've offered to stay and help an old friend recover. You're not as changed as you think."

Ian dropped his gaze. He had no idea what to think. In truth, he'd had no idea how long he was going to stay in LA – Luke's men, admittedly, probably had not forgotten about him, but he was going to run out of money soon if he didn't get back to work. But Mari had a way of making him forget about all that, with her genuine hope and the simple desire to have him around.

However, he could not let the moment last. It was time he asked her a far more serious question, one that had been bothering him for a long time. "Mari," he said as gently as he was able, "what do you remember about the night you were attacked?"

As he expected, her face fell, and she withdrew from him. "Not much," she said in a small voice.

He nodded quickly. "I know. I thought so. I just thought...I'd like to figure out who hurt you, Mari."

"Why?" Mari said, her voice suddenly sharp. She narrowed her eyes. "Anthony told me you work as a gunrunner and you've been killing Russians left and right. Are you going to track down this guy and kill him?"

_Yes, _Ian thought, but he didn't dare say it aloud. "I just want to know what happened."

There was a moment in which she eyed him with a suspicious gaze, but after years of lying and scamming and conning, he was able to keep his expression neutral. Mari sighed and closed her eyes. "I remember I had to take a different way home. There was some sort of incident on my normal route and it was dangerous to go that way, so I went by...by that place that had once been the city hall."

The air was suddenly gone from his lungs. "Mari," he said, his voice tight, "that's where the Russians made their main headquarters in LA." It had been a final twist of the knife to ensure the Russians' victory over California.

"Yeah," she said. "I know. I went by there, and I guess...someone followed me home."

_Where were Joshua and David? _Ian found himself wondering as he listened. _Anthony had his family, but Joshua wasn't working at the hospital yet, as far as I know. Had David lost his family by that point? Why weren't they with her? _"Someone followed you," he repeated.

"I don't remember what he looked like," she said. She was frozen, her hands folded in her lap, but her face strained as she remembered. "I do remember he had a tattoo of a tiger on his arm, though. He attacked me. I remember a lot of blood. He...he must have thought I was dead, because when he was done, he left. I think Sohinki came in at that point. He brought me to the hospital and...I don't remember anything after that." Her eyes were shining again. There was a pause. "Ian?"

_Fuck. Fuck. No._

Something was twisting his heart, constricting his chest, and Ian was sure he was having another panic attack. "I have to go," he managed to say. He did not miss the hurt that crossed her face. Without another word, he strode from the room.

_A tiger tattoo..._

To his horror, Ian realized that tears had begun to burn in his eyes, and he ducked quickly out of the hospital. His shaking hands fumbled for a cigarette. It would not offer much comfort. His heart worked like a piston in his chest and he remembered all too clearly the horrible scene he had found six years ago. As soon as the words had left Mari's mouth, Ian could picture only bloodied footprints upon hardwood floors.

* * *

A/N: I hope everyone gets why Ian freaked the fuck out. If not, please refer to chapter six xD

Scenes with Ian &amp; Kalel will never cease to crack me up.

Next time: Ian tries to get more information about this guy as a lot more drama unfolds. Oh noes. Thanks for reading, guys :)


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry for the wait, guys. College.

More angst &amp; drama. Enjoy :)

* * *

The sun was setting over the horizon, but it was hard to tell through the gray, hazy sky. It had created a dull gradient of black descending into fading silver. Ian watched it indifferently as he took a long drag on his cigarette. He and John stood upon the roof of a tall building that had once been some sort of office. Now it was ransacked and abandoned, and home to shady transactions such as the one the two of them were celebrating. Both had walked away from it with fewer bullets but more rubles in their pockets. "Got a light?" John said, holding out his own. His shirt was splattered with blood.

Ian popped open his lighter and lit it for him. "Heard anything from Luke?" he asked.

The other man shrugged. "Nothing. You're sure of it, then. He's working with the Russians."

"Yes." Ian grit his teeth. "Stupid bastard. He sold me out so they would work for him."

"Well, I always knew he was an idiot." John took a long drag on his cigarette. "Probably best we got away from him when we did, yeah? And the loot's not as bad in LA as I thought it would be. It's not as great as Anaheim, but there's just enough shit going on to score some decent stuff."

Ian nodded absently. His thoughts were with Mari, and the terrible revelation she had graced him with the day before. It had consumed his mind, shifting his emotions from fear to panic to rage; and even as he considered it, thought the matter over and analyzed what it meant, there was no question as to what he had to do. Even then, there were a few things he needed to take care of. "I need to get back to the hospital soon," Ian said.

John looked at him, a frown crossing his pointed features. "So, you're officially part of them again? Your old friends, I mean. You're done being a gunrunner?"  
"I doubt that," Ian said. "I can't really stop being a gunrunner, can I? People are still after me."

"Answer the first question, asshole."

There was a pause. Ian looked to the sun again, but it had faded away, leaving them with inky, smoky darkness. Up here, the city didn't smell so much like gunpowder and ash. He took another drag. "I don't know," he said at last. "I don't think they'll ever want me to return, and it's not like everything will go back to normal once I rejoin them. And there are some things I can't forget."

John shrugged. "Well, whatever you decide, I hope we can still do business together. You're somewhat more useful than the rest of the idiots I've worked with."

"Thanks, I guess." Ian smirked to himself, then his amusement faded when something important came to mind. "Did you get that thing I asked for?"

"Oh. Yeah." John fished in his pocket and handed him what looked to be some sort of card. "That the right one?"

Ian examined it. North district, it read. "Yes. Thank you."

John took another drag as he watched him carefully. "So. You're going after that Russian official, then?"

Though the words were simple, that familiar seething hatred flowed like ice through his heart, and Ian took a moment to collect himself before he responded. Mari had given him a very fleeting description of her attacker, but he had realized who it had been right away. He had accepted his next course of action straight away – he had been waiting a long time for this. "Yes," he said.

It would be dangerous. Ian seriously doubted he would walk away from it. But it was better that he eliminate the man who had killed Melanie than to allow himself to live in pain and the official to get away with what he had done.

"I see." John flicked the cigarette away, and it fell from the building. "You want help?"

Ian hesitated. _Did _he want help? If John went with him, it was more likely he would succeed and the asshole would end up dead. But it was also more likely that Ian would walk away from it. After everything he had done, once the last of his demons was taken care of, Ian wasn't sure he wanted to continue living in a world that had nothing to offer him. And it wasn't John's debt to repay. "No," Ian said. "No, I need to do this alone."  
John shrugged. "If that's what you want."

They prepared to leave. Ian took stock of the guns and ammunition he had collected from the dead Russians and John counted the rubles again. As they descended down the stairs, checking carefully for any stragglers, John suddenly broke the silence.

"Oh, I heard an interesting rumor regarding the Russians' plans," he said.

He could have cared less about what the Russians were planning, as there was very rarely anything they could do about it, but sometimes it involved him. "What was that?"

"Their next target is south district. They plan to annihilate it, totally level it to the ground. But it won't be for a couple months. They estimate June."

Something about his words made Ian consider them carefully, and it wasn't until they had parted ways that Ian realized what had bothered him. South district was where Anthony, Kalel, and Emily lived. They would have no way of knowing about the danger – if no one informed them, they would be obliterated just like their part of the city. He would lose the person who was supposed to be his best friend.

His best friend, who had left him to die on the streets of LA six years ago, who had not even considered leaving his sanctuary to try and save him. The idea of letting Anthony get what he deserved was undoubtedly tempting. But it would mean that Kalel and Emily would die too, and well, he had just finished rescuing both of them. Was it really worth losing them just so that Ian could finally have some sense of peace?

He remembered the finality in Anthony's voice. The pain in his chest as he tried in vain to plead with someone who never intended to help him. He remembered the last words his best friend had spoken to him for six years: "I'm sorry."

_Yes_, a voice in his head chimed, and he agreed.

* * *

"Hey, David?"

The other man looked up quickly as he walked out of Mari's hospital room. David's face relaxed at the sight of him. "Oh, hey Ian. What's up?"

Ian nodded toward Mari's room He could just see her through the blinds as she sat in bed, reading. "How is she?" he asked as the hospital bustled around them. There had been a shooting and a bombing downtown, and the nurses and doctors were scrambling to find rooms for everyone who had been hurt. The two of them stood carefully off to the side, out of the way of the stretchers.

He had not seen Mari since he had left her in her room the day before. Ian was aware that he owed her some sort of explanation, but the weight of what her words had revealed had left him in a dazed fog. It took effort to focus on what David was saying. "Better than she should be. She's really lucky," he said, with a sincere, relieved smile. "She remembers everything up to her attack. Anthony and I have been taking turns helping her with her physical therapy, and she's getting stronger every day."

His open, honest happiness even had Ian wearing a small smile, but he knew it didn't quite meet his eyes. "That's great. And...and Joshua?"

"Oh, he's fine. He should be out of the hospital pretty soon, actually. I know he's been dying to see Mari. Erin dropped by today to check on him, at least, so we didn't totally forget about him this time." He ended his words with a smirk, but when Ian didn't respond, David watched as paramedics rushed past them, pushing along a bloodied man on a stretcher, his face drawn and thoughtful. "What about you, Ian?"

His head snapped around to look at him. "What about me?"

"I know I haven't been...completely there for everybody since I got cut off from my family," the older man said, his voice kept carefully even. "But even I can tell that something's been up with you. Well, more than usual, at least." David smirked at him again, but Ian had fixed his gaze on the floor. "So...was there anything you wanted to tell me?"

Ian paused, sifting his words around in his head. There were a million things he could tell him. It was very possible this would be the last time Ian would ever see David, if he lost his life as he intended – he could tell him how sorry he was that it worked out like this, that he was going to lose both Ian and Anthony in a matter of months. But he said none of that.

Instead, he held out the card John had given him. "Here. This is for you."

David hesitated a moment, then took it, his brow furrowed in confusion. Ian saw the exact moment he realized what it was; shock crept into his round features, freezing him to the spot. His eyes were very wide. "This – this is a district pass," he said softly. He had to swallow before he could speak. "I can – see my family again..."

Ian nodded. Though he had expected this precise reaction from him, David's shock and gratitude made him a little uncomfortable. He was used to stealing and scamming from people, not returning to them something they had lost years ago. "Yeah. Sorry it took so long. I had to get it renewed."

David ran a hand through his hair, and he let out a laugh as wild joy worked through the shock. "Oh my God. Ian. Thank you." He hugged him tightly. Ian fought not to grimace or tense away. When David released him, his eyes were shining with happiness. "I think I'm going to go now – find them, I mean. Mari would understand, right?"

"I think she will," Ian agreed.

"Okay. I hope I don't get shot." David grinned at him, and Ian saw a flash of that old confidence. "I'll see you in a few days. Probably. Let Anthony and Joshua know where I've gone, all right?"

"I will."

He left at once, and there was an energy to his step Ian had not seen since they had reunited. It reminded him of the old Lasercorn, the confident and unshakable person they all knew was invaluable during a Game Bang. With luck, maybe he would find his family, bring them all back and be happily reunited with his wife and son. Ian wished his problems could be fixed with something as simple as a district pass.

After taking a breath to prepare himself, as he knew this encounter would not be easy, Ian walked into Mari's room. "Hey," he said, and Mari smiled at him and closed the magazine she had been reading. "Anything good in there?"

She wrinkled her nose. Every day, she grew stronger and looked healthier, and in this new dark world, her recovery seemed nothing short of a miracle. Mari moved with far more animation and strength, her pallor had completely returned, and he could see the old humor in her bright, telling eyes. "No. I seriously doubt that reading about celebrity weight loss will help us fight off the Russians, but you never know. It's a little old, see." She pointed to the date in the corner. 2013.

Ian sat in the chair beside her bed. "Ah. What a...different time that was."

She giggled. "Oh, don't be like that. We had some fun, back in the day. Before everything when batshit crazy."

"I don't really remember it," he said, but with less amusement. Ian had tried to keep his tone light instead of grim, but he knew Mari had picked up on his change of mood.

Her smile faltered somewhat. "Do you...regret our old lives?" she asked. Mari's eyes bore into him. He wished she would look away.

He shrugged uncomfortably. It was so hard to talk to her, so hard to admit how fucked up he had become. "I don't know," Ian said distantly. "I regret thinking I had people who cared about what happened to me. That was a mistake."

"_Ian._" Mari glared at him, her clenched fists bunching up the sheets. "Anthony made a mistake, but he had his reasons. _I _would have gone out and helped you, dammit."

"Then I should have called you," he murmured.

He heard a disgruntled sigh. "Yes, but I can understand why I wasn't your first choice. I was too far away, anyway – Sohinki, Jovie, and I went to get food somewhere when everything went down. I suppose maybe we should tell you where we all were at the time..." She paused, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Or perhaps, what we've been up to since then...I can tell you about the first three years, at least." Mari chuckled darkly.

Ian knew there was probably a lot he didn't know; six years was a _long _time to stay out of touch with a group of people, especially in a chaotic environment such as theirs. But he didn't want to hear about things like Anthony's wedding, if he and Kalel had one, or other such things Ian should have been there for. "I'm good," he said shortly. "I might end up hurting someone if we talk any more about Anthony."

Mari sent him an exasperated glance, tinged with something like sadness. "You do love to cause trouble, but if that's what you want. I want you to hear all about our lives since we lost you, though. It's not that bad." She toyed absently with the collar of her hospital gown. "What was that with David out there? I've never seen him leave so fast. I'd ask if you did something to piss him off, as you seem to be good at that, but he looked happy. Really, really happy."

"He went to find his family," Ian said. When Mari's eyebrows rose, he added, "I got him a district pass."

"Oh," she said softly. When she looked at him again, her face had lit up, and she wore a smile similar to the one David had displayed. "That's great! I can't believe you did that! Man, wait till I tell Anthony and Joshua. They're not going to believe you could do something that was, like, nice."

Ian bounced his leg nervously, well aware of the scowl on his face. "No need to tell them," he said. Joshua might make fun of him, saying the badass gunrunner had a soft side, and Anthony wouldn't believe that he didn't have an ulterior motive.

Mari giggled again. Then her eyes grew somber. "Well, I hope he finds his family. I've never met his little boy. I can't wait."

There was another pause as she happily mulled over this. Ian stared at the cover of the magazine, trying to figure out how to breach the topic he wanted to discuss without frightening her. He was quickly learning that it was a lot harder to get information from someone he cared about – and it was made even more difficult knowing that this may be the last time he saw her. Mari sighed at him, startling him out of his thoughts.

"All right, what did you want to talk about?" she said gruffly, her head tilted to the side as she considered him. "I can tell just by looking at you that you're not just here to check up on me."

He met her gaze, suddenly ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." She peered at him. Six years and a coma and she could still read him like a book. "It's about the guy, right? Tiger tattoo guy. The guy who seemed to freak you out for some reason yesterday."

Just the mention of that tiger tattoo sent chills up his spine. Ian forced himself to nod, but he didn't offer an explanation as to why he had suddenly fled. "I'm really sorry to ask you this, Mari, but...I need to know all that you remember about him."

Her eyes narrowed. The amusement had completely left her features. "Why?" she said, her willowy form hunching slightly in her confusion. Mari's brows were drawn to a crease, and her small hands clenched the sheets again. "It's over. It's done. It happened a long time ago, so it doesn't matter anymore."

Ian closed his eyes briefly. "It...it does to me, Mari."

Another pause. Mari studied him, her eyes far too serious and scrutinizing. When she spoke, her voice seemed almost angry. "I just remember the tattoo, not his face," she said firmly. "And that he stays at the city hall. You – you're not thinking of going after him, are you?" She froze, utterly still, like a mouse that had spotted danger.

What was the point of lying? She had a right to know where he intended to go. "Yeah," he said softly, and he somehow kept his voice even.

Mari gaped at him, pain flashing through her eyes. She scooted her recovering body closer to him as she instantly attempted to talk him out of it. "Ian – no, you can't, this guy is..." Then her face hardened, and she shot him a look filled with despair and anger. "You promised me you wouldn't leave again," she said in a choked whisper.

He _had _promised. He had told her that not even a day ago, and her words sent a chill through his heart. Even as shame settled in his gut, he forced himself to meet her gaze. "Things changed," Ian said. "I...found out some things that I have to deal with."

Ian was sure that he had been vague enough for her to never guess what motivated him. But something in his expression made her pause. Even though he should have expected it, even though he knew she knew him so well she could read him like a book, shock had him suddenly frozen when she next spoke. "You're not doing this for me," she said softly. "Are you?"

He looked at her, fighting for words.

"What's the real reason, then?" Mari demanded. She had him trapped in her sharp, scrutinizing gaze. He had never thought of her as intimidating, unless she was angry, but he felt very small and ashamed as she demanded to know why he was going to break his promise. "Why are you going after him?"

"Because he's the one who killed Melanie," he heard himself say, and he almost didn't hear her gasp of horror, the resonating silence after; it was the first time he had said those words aloud, and it had been six years.

Mari's hands had flown to her mouth. Her eyes were already watering. "Oh my God. I – I had no idea. Ian..."

"It's done," he interrupted, his voice defeated and empty. Mari froze, staring at him as though seeing him for the first time, as tears trickled down her cheeks. He hated her pity, hated that she now knew. His words were blunt as he continued, "All I have left to do is take care of the asshole who did it." It wasn't completely true. He had a long way to go before he took care of all that afflicted him.

For a moment, she just looked at him. Tears continued to fall in twin rivulets, but Mari was silent, studying him with her hands clenched over her mouth. This time he better understood her sympathy. She had been close to Melanie, must have wondered what had happened to her; he should have anticipated her reaction. _Dammit, _he thought bitterly. _I didn't want to make her cry this time. _Mari swallowed thickly and stammered out, "So...so now you're going to go after him. This is going to be dangerous, Ian. You realize that, right?"

"I know," he said softly. They had been over this, hadn't they? Why was she making this so much harder?

"I don't want to lose you again." Her eyes hardened, and she stared up at him with such conviction he almost swore to her right then he wasn't going to go.

He didn't know what to do. When was the last time someone had been sincerely worried about him? The other gunrunners all faced the same sort of danger, and in the end, it all came down to profits with them; James made it clear, more often than not, that rubles mattered more than the safety of his gunrunners. Anthony had asked him to infiltrate that Russian prison without even considering that Ian might lose his life doing it. And suddenly, here was Mari, upset with the fact that Ian was leaving on this substantially dangerous mission. He had a hard time wrapping his head around it. "I've been through worse," he said, attempting to smile, but he couldn't quite manage it. A crippling darkness seemed to loom over them as he stated his next words, knowing they would hurt her. "Mari...I can't pretend that I care if I come back from this. There's nothing here for me anymore. Nothing."

She looked at him fiercely. "That's _not _true. There's me. I'll be on your side, no matter what."

He shook his head, even as her statement warmed his heart. "No. You have Anthony and Joshua and David to look after you. I'm more of a danger to you than you can understand, Mari. I don't want to come back from this."

But Mari seemed beyond hearing him. She shook her head. "But you'll have backup," she said. Her eyes still shone with tears, even as she looked at him with hope. "You've got gunrunner buddies to help you, right? You're not going in alone."

And her face looked so earnest and hopeful he could not tell her the truth. "Of course," he heard himself say. Ian was suddenly thankful that six years of gunrunning had taught him how to lie.

Mari nodded once. Her shoulders sagged with her relief. "I guess it's the best I'm going to get."

Suddenly Ian could see the flaw in his plan, his wish that he never come back from this mission – Mari cared about him too much. "Mari..." He hesitated, closing his eyes, then plowed on: "If it looks like I'm not going to be brought back, if I get hurt and I probably won't make it...don't try to bring me back. I don't deserve it."

For a moment, she stared at him blankly, as though she wasn't quite sure what he had said. Mari swallowed hard. "Don't say that." She blinked away tears. "I believe that you've done some terrible things, but…everyone deserves a second chance. You've already started to redeem yourself. You saved Kalel and Emily, and you've been helping me get better. I think you definitely deserve it."

Ian dropped his gaze. _Why are you making this so much harder? I'm finally going to get what I want. What I deserve._ "This is what I want, Mari."

There was a terrible silence. Mari's face was a mask of despair. "You promised me you wouldn't leave again," she said softly.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He couldn't stand to be there any longer. Ian got to his feet and left her to cry.

He wandered outside, desperate for a cigarette and to escape the noise of the hospital. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't leave yet for the Russian base. Ian needed a little time to prepare; and if he was going to die, there were some things he needed to take care of first. Ian had blown up the prison where he'd been held for six months, he was about to eliminate of the man who had killed Melanie – all that was left was his best friend who had left him to die. He sat on the stairs in the alleyway as he smoked, wondering, planning, and somehow more at peace than he had been in days.

Ian rose to return to the hospital, flicking his spent cigarette onto the filthy asphalt, but the door opened suddenly. Anthony froze for a moment at the sight of him, and to his surprise, he closed the door. His former friend had a very odd expression on his face. He looked almost guilty, and very much unsure of himself. Ian scowled at him, in no mood for whatever plagued the other man. "What do you want?" he snapped.

Anthony didn't rise to the bait as he had hoped. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Ian narrowed his eyes. What the hell _did _he want? "I hear you're going after the guy that hurt Mari," he said in a quiet voice.

For a moment, his words caught him off guard. So Mari had told Anthony what he had planned...did she do that in an effort to get him to stay? If Mari thought Ian would listen to Anthony, she hadn't been paying much attention. But it also seemed that Mari had told him only that the guy had been the one who had hurt her – nothing about Melanie. The realization stirred up a strange mix of guilt and gratitude in the back of his mind, and he forced it aside at once. "Is she...doing all right?" he asked; he wanted to know if Mari was still crying after what she had learned.

"She's fine," Anthony said shortly. His eyes snapped up to look at him. "Are you going after him or not?"

Ian fixed him with a stare laced with suspicion. "I am," he said. He'd like to _see _Anthony try and stop him.

But his eyes were stony with a determination Ian had not yet seen. "I want to help you," he said.

Ian barked out a harsh laugh, and Anthony blinked at him, his courage wavering. _This _was certainly a surprise. "You? Do you have any idea what I'm going to be facing? Do you know how to handle a gun beyond the _one_ guy you shot at the prison, the guy who probably wasn't even paying attention?"

"Don't be an asshole," he said, but there was far less bite behind it. "I've wanted the guy who hurt Mari brought to justice for a long time. And –"

"Justice," Ian repeated with a sneer. "This isn't going to be any sort of justice. It's an assassination."

"Nevertheless," Anthony said coldly, "I want to help. And Ian, you saved Kalel. And Emily. My entire family would be dead if it weren't for you." As the other man's angry words drifted into genuine gratitude, Ian watched the person who had once been his best friend. He felt oddly numb. An old fury stirred in his heart. Anthony continued speaking, but his voice sounded very far away. "Please – let me help you. I owe you so much."

_I owe you. _The words resonated in his head. Anthony had no idea how much truth they held. Ian lifted his gaze and met his eyes, cold with anger, adrenaline running through his veins like ice at the sudden opportunity. "You're right," he said softly. "You do owe me."

If what John had told him held true, that the Russians were going to eliminate south district anyway, there was no reason for Ian to seek revenge upon Anthony. But Anthony still did not understand what his betrayal had done to him. If Ian was going to die, he wanted to be sure Anthony knew exactly how he felt about that incident six years ago. He remembered every second of it; the moment he hit the asphalt, the warm blood spreading from the wound in his chest, the shock and despair upon hearing that his best friend would do nothing to help him.

Anyone who had worked through the harsh life as a gunrunner would have known what was about to happen, but Anthony had lived the majority of the takeover in the safety of his friends and family. A far easier life than most. He had no idea what Ian intended.

Ian brought out his gun and shot him in the stomach.

The report echoed through the alleyway. Anthony let out a cry of terror and pain and Ian watched him fall without much emotion. There was shock in his watery dark eyes as he clutched at the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Anthony collapsed onto the concrete. His mouth worked noiselessly, staring up at Ian with something beyond shock. Numb and indifferent, Ian knelt beside him as he bled and trembled. "You may as well have fired the shot that hit me six years ago," Ian hissed. His voice was dangerous and low; it didn't sound like him at all. "I was as good as dead, no thanks to you. How does it feel to know that I'm going to leave you here; I won't even _try _to help you, just like you did to me."

And Ian stepped over his trembling form and walked out through the alley.

* * *

A/N: Oh yeah, guys, Ian's not one of the good guys xD He very much has his own agenda, doesn't he lol. Also, we're nearing the end of this fic D: Just a few more chapters left. It's been amazing writing this thing; I'll be sad to see it finally finished.

Next time: Ian infiltrates the Russian base, and then...lots of violence lol. Thanks for reading guys :D


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Hey guys!

So last time I left off with this story, Ian had just shot Anthony, and I ended it with him walking back into the hospital. Well...it turns out that didn't really work out xD I was going to have Mari react to Ian shooting Anthony, but the scene just didn't make sense to me, and it turned out to be simply impossible to write.

Instead of Ian going back into the hospital, he now leaves immediately to take out the Russian guy. I hope this doesn't cause any confusion; I'm sorry for the slight change of plot, as it shows a lack of planning on my part, but sometimes these things happen to writers lol. It doesn't change the story much at all.

Okay, now that that's out of the way - have some violence :D and a visitor. Hmm.

* * *

There was nothing left for him now. Ian had left Anthony bleeding in an alleyway, and as Ian walked away from the scene, he wore a smirk on his face. It had been very satisfying watching the person who had unknowingly tormented him for years get exactly what he deserved. Anthony would live, assuming the doctors found him in time. Ian knew how to shoot someone so they would have a good chance of survival; perhaps he had made those previous shots to practice for the moment he saw Anthony again.

So indeed, with Anthony taken care of, there was no reason for Ian to return to those who called themselves his friends. It was perhaps the bigger reason he had done it – shooting Anthony made it easier for the others to accept that he wasn't going to walk away from this mission. It gave them a reason to hate him, and that was better than grief.

He didn't have any sort of plan as to how he would infiltrate what had once been the city hall. The last of his bombs had been used to blow up that prison, and unless he stood right next to the building as it exploded, he wouldn't get killed doing it; besides, he wanted the tattooed Russian man to look him in the eyes when he killed him, maybe get him to acknowledge what he had done...Ian knew that was probably too much to hope, but he kept it in mind, imagined it as Ian crossed the eerily quiet streets of LA toward the city hall.

_You promised me you would leave again. _Distracted, Ian rubbed at his eyes. He was about to kill the person who had torn his life apart and Mari, of all people, was getting in the way. Mari and her sympathy, her unconditional desire to simply have him around; would she still feel like that once she had learned Ian had shot Anthony? Somehow he doubted it. She would get over his loss. She had Joshua and David and Anthony, assuming he made it; and their wives or girlfriends, too. Mari didn't need him.

But it was so hard to think of something other than the hurt on her face when she realized he didn't intend to return. _She's going to lose me all over again, _he thought, and it was frustrating to realize the thought upset him.

Ian forced himself to Mari aside and focus on what he had to do. He was about to take care of his last affliction; he couldn't afford to become distracted now. He kept his mind carefully blank, free of any guilt or shame or sadness, until the city hall was in sight.

Since it was located in LA, it wasn't the typical white building, proud and traditional. The city hall had many stories, almost every wall on every story was a window; however, since the Russians had gotten a hold of it, the place was a little more decrepit. Ian counted five broken windows. The words above the grand double doors, once reading _Los Angeles City Hall, _were missing nearly all of their letters. It was a sorry sight, but so was almost everything in the states these days. Ian paused across the street, the very street Mari had innocently walked through three years ago, and analyzed the building. It seemed easy for the Russians to defend, with its few doors and concrete first floors, and he wondered just how he was going to get inside and track down the man he was meant to kill.

Someone strode out of the city hall. Ian watched the guy carefully, thinking that perhaps he could follow the guy and obtain some information as to the best way to infiltrate the city hall, but the man only went right next door. Greasy, scowling, and wearing far too many heavy clothes for LA, the guy strode into the building carrying a stack of boxes and left a few minutes later without them. The building next door was a sturdier, bulkier structure – perhaps it was meant to house their supplies. It seemed odd that they chose that building when the city hall seemed plenty big, but it could mean that there were more people inside the city hall than Ian had estimated, which was another problem on its own.

A bus drove slowly through the street, taking its time to pass by both buildings of interest. At almost the exact same time, two men approached the storage building with food and ammunition in their hands. Ian's mind sprang into focus; he grabbed a grenade from his pack and moved quickly, toward the slow-moving bus. He would have to time this very carefully – any wrong move and he would be spotted, or shot, or struck with his own grenade.

The bus paused in front of both buildings. The first man opened the door and held it open for the second guy. Ian ripped the pin out with his teeth and tossed the grenade through the cracked door, then ducked behind the bus.

He knelt near the filthy back left tire. When he didn't hear the solid _clink, clink _of the grenade falling against the pavement nearby, nor the men's surprised yells, Ian knew he had made a perfect throw. There was a tremendous _boom, _exactly five seconds later,that sent a jolt through his heart like a shockwave. He heard the bus's suspension creak and bounce from the force of the shock, the people inside screaming, and the shouts of the men from the city hall. There were several frantic footsteps as they hurried to investigate what had happened; the bus's engine revved up in the driver's haste to escape the scene. Ian couldn't blame him – no American wanted to be near the Russians when something was clearly going wrong and risk their wrath.

But if the bus departed, he would lose his cover and leave him exposed on the street. It left him with no choice – he would have to run inside the city hall immediately, even if all the Russians who intended to investigate hadn't yet left the building. When the bus began to move, he walked steadily alongside it until it left him with a clear, direct path to the city hall doors. Heart pounding, Ian walked straight for it.

He pushed the door open to the dim, warm entrance hall, only to be met face-to-face with a man who had a tangle of a beard and longish, gray-streaked hair.

Ian shot him at once, without pausing to think – shoving the body away from the door, he slammed it closed, locking the Russians out of their own headquarters. As the men outside shouted and pounded on the door, Ian looked around the dimly-lit entrance. It was quite warm, as air conditioning hardly worked anywhere anymore, and there was a thick layer of dust upon the marble floor. Ian could see a twisted staircase near the back of the hall, an abandoned reception desk, and several waiting room chairs, long since abandoned. But what stood out the most was the fact that it was empty. Silent and empty.

_This isn't right, _Ian thought, hurrying to move away from the door before the Russians outside could burst through. He stepped around the dead man and the puddle of blood on the floor and ran for the stairs. Running up them, two at a time, he at last came to the second floor landing. Ian reached for the double doors.

But they was waiting for him.

They had assembled on either end of the hallway, and when he walked through the doors, the Russians closed in on him from both sides. Guns held close, identical smirks upon their faces. Ian never had time to aim his gun. Someone smacked him in the back of the head with a pistol – he fell forward, stars exploding in front of his eyes.

The men were laughing as they hauled him up by his arms. "Take his guns," one of them barked in Russian, and Ian felt someone rip the gun from his hand. _They were waiting for me, _he thought numbly. _They knew I was coming...how? I didn't tell anyone about this except Anthony, Mari, and..._

_ John. _The realization sent ripples of anger through his heart, but he was unsurprised; John was another gunrunner. He must have been paid pretty well to betray Ian to the Russians; if he had been offered a decent amount of rubles, Ian might have done the same. "What should we do with him?" asked another, continuing in the same language; they had no idea Ian could understand them. "He looks like he came here to kill us."

The first Russian smiled, and Ian felt his blood run cold. _It's him, _he thought dazedly. The big man had a tattoo of a Siberian tiger across his shoulder and bicep. His grin was twisted and cruel. "We find out why. Take him to the holding cell." He fixed his cold gaze on him. Terrible hatred had his blood curdling, and Ian put as much anger into his returning glare as he could. "Regards from Luke," the Russian man continued. "You have him to thank for the tip...and the ammunition. Take him away."

* * *

Ian watched his blood drip into his lap. He was dazed, in a fair amount of pain, and they had hardly even begun. With effort, he raised his eyes and watched the Russian man retrieve a wine bottle from the corner of the room. His hands felt deadened where they were tied behind him to the chair. Things weren't looking good for him; he was captured and hurt, and yet...the numb anger remained. Ian found he wasn't really afraid. He had the murderer right in front of him, the asshole who had killed her, taken her away from him...

_Would the others care if they knew I was captured? _He wondered if Anthony would bother doing anything this time. If Mari was true to her word; that she did care about him, or if she was as likely to forget about him as Anthony. Ian kept his gaze locked on the Russian man as he made his way back over to him, though his vision kept fading in and out of focus. The wine bottle cracked against his face. His head jerked to the side and Ian felt his cheek split open. "I'm going to ask you again," growled the Russian man in broken English. Through blurry eyes, Ian watched the tiger tattoo on his arm as the man circled around the chair. "What are you doing here? Why are you here – armed? Are you American?"

"Yes, I'm American," Ian said in Russian. His voice was hoarse and raw, but the satisfaction of knowing he was driving his captor insane made speaking worth it.

The Russian man snarled. He paused in front of Ian's chair, about to speak, perhaps state his demands again, but Ian spit blood in his face. He heard a roar before he received a crippling blow to the side of his head; the impact was so powerful it nearly knocked the chair to the ground. Ian hung limply in the chair, jarred and dazed; A high-pitched keen began to ring in his ears. "You little shit!" the Russian snarled, but his voice sounded very far away. He kicked Ian roughly in the shin, but he barely felt the pain. "Why the fuck are you here?"

He listened to the dull screech in his ears until it became a throbbing pain. Even after the hit, Ian swallowed and spoke. "Give me a moment, if you would; it's hard to think after you hit me that hard." His voice sounded horribly slurred, and he was speaking through a split lip.

"Don't fuck with me," growled the Russian. He seized his throat, yanking Ian's face up until he was staring him in the eye. The man's grip tightened on his neck, crushing his windpipe, and Ian struggled to breathe. "Talk. We can make this very difficult for you."

The first time Ian was interrogated, he was twenty-nine, and the gunrunners had been ambushed when a deal had gone bad. Ian and two other coworkers were taken prisoner. He had to watch as they died screaming; then James apparently decided he was worth saving and arrived with John, Luke, and some others to save him. They hadn't gotten there in time to save the other two, though. "You save who you can," James had said later as he helped patch Ian up. "You're just useful enough to keep around, Ian. I'm not quite ready to let those Russians kill you yet."

Now, though, he had been betrayed by his own gunrunners. John and Luke were probably rolling in all the rubles they had collected to ensure Ian ended up in the Russians' clutches. He must have been very distracted indeed to not have noticed John planned to betray him to that asshole Luke; he blamed Mari and her trust in him that he didn't understand, nor deserve. Ian smiled. It must have looked horrific; his teeth were probably red from his split lip. "I'd say it's pretty difficult," he gasped out.

The man released him and cracked the bottle against the back of the chair. Ian flinched, having expected to be struck with it. As the broken glass clattered to the concrete floor, his interrogator seized his hair and held the broken bottle at his throat. Ian could smell cigar smoke on his breath. "I'm getting tired of this," he snapped. "Talk, or I'll open your throat and be done with this. Why are you here?"

Ian met his eyes. The Russian's face had clearly seen better days; it was heavily lined with scars, grizzled and rough, and so hard it looked as though it had been carved from stone. His eyes were icy blue, watery and never still. He had shaved his head. Ian could see a twisted scar that ran from the back of his skull, as though his head had been cracked open at some point. He had never seen his face before; he had seen nothing but his tattoo that fateful day, and now, he was finally looking into the face of the person who had taken so much from him. "You..." Ian choked out. He swallowed and tried again. "You killed someone very important to me."

For a moment, the man looked stunned. Then the broken bottle was pressed harder against his neck, and he felt a pinprick of pain. A cruel smile crossed the Russian's face. "I doubt I remember," he said. "Then you are here for revenge, no?"

Without warning, the Russian threw Ian's chair to the floor. There was a tremendous _bang _as the metal chair collided with the stone floor, and Ian felt a searing, burning pain traveling up his entire arm as he landed in the broken glass. Suddenly blinded with pain, he almost didn't hear the man's cruel laughter.

"You were so close," the Russian said, and aimed a kick that struck him in the chest. Ian crumpled, the air suddenly gone from his lungs, as the man walked around the fallen chair. "Perhaps I shall make this slower, then – if you had truly come to kill me, perhaps I will make an example of you." Ian couldn't see him. He lay on the floor, his cheek pressed against the cold stone. Pain shot up his arm, throbbing and burning, and he wondered how much glass had been lodged in his arm. _No, _he thought numbly. _I can't lose to him now, I can't die like this...not when I've finally found the man responsible for killing Melanie, I can't die now..._ Suddenly, he felt the man grab his right hand, tied behind the chair. "Let us begin," he hissed, and he was far too close.

Something cold and sharp was pressed against his index finger. Ian's breath caught in his throat.

The door opened. His vision was too blurry to see the newcomer, but he heard the man speaking, saying something to the men in the hallway, and he focused on their voices like a lifeline. Ian blinked several times, trying to discern who it was. In the midst of his efforts, he realized the man was speaking German. The newcomer walked inside.

He heard a noise of exasperation from behind him. "What do you want?" the Russian demanded. "I am in the middle of an interrogation."

"My apologies," the newcomer said, this time in Russian. Ian stared at the blurry image in wonder. Why did that slightly nasal, crisp voice sound so familiar? "I have news from..."

But the man's voice broke off suddenly, and it was then that Ian could see him clearly; and, as fate would have it, he _did _know him. Ian swallowed several times as he tried to speak. To make him realize who he was, to get his attention...anything. The other man's eyes had locked on him – he could almost hear his mind working.

"From headquarters," the newcomer continued, his gaze flicking back to the Russian man. "It seems you are wanted from higher up."

The Russian made a disgusted noise. The blade was drawn away, and Ian could breathe at last. "What do they want now?" he snarled.

"I don't know, sir. But it seemed urgent."

There was a tense pause. Ian stared up at the newcomer, hardly daring to believe it. Then the Russian seized Ian's hair and hissed in his ear, "We will finish this later." He left abruptly through the back door, leaving Ian alone with the man who had just arrived.

He offered him a weak smile. "You're...in the wrong side of town," Ian told him between pained breaths.

Sohinki drew a knife and walked over to where he lay. "And you're supposed to be dead," was his gentle, distant retort. "But nothing really surprises me anymore."

Ian couldn't help but flinch when he moved around him and began to saw at the ropes binding his hands; he wasn't entirely sure Sohinki wasn't there to hurt him. But the ropes fell away. Ian slowly picked himself up, his head spinning and throbbing, and when he looked at his right arm, he found it a cut-up, bloody mess. For a moment, he sat there and tried to collect himself until Sohinki offered a hand and helped him to his feet. "Thanks," Ian muttered. He placed a hand against the wall, steadying himself against it, as the floor spun beneath his feet. _Almost died...again, _he thought numbly. _Just another close call..._

Sohinki retrieved a towel from the corner of the room and threw it at his face. "You're a damned mess," he said bluntly.

"Thanks. I'm aware." Ian pressed it against his split lip, and it came away soaked in blood. "What the hell are you doing here, Sohinki?"

"I could ask you the same," he said. Ian couldn't quite pinpoint it, but there was something very different about the way Sohinki held himself, the way his expression always seemed to be set. It didn't look like the person he had once known, but Sohinki probably thought the same of him. "You need to get out of here. Immediately."

But Ian shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm here to kill that asshole." He jerked his thumb at the back door through which the Russian man had just left.

Sohinki's eyes widened. "You can't," he blurted out.

Ian raised his eyebrows, but it hurt to even do that. He could feel every one of his injuries, and the blood trickling down the side of his head; he hastened to wipe it away. "What the hell do you care?" he said. "Where the fuck have you been – are you telling me you're on _their _side now?"

"They didn't leave me with much choice," the other man snapped. "They tracked down every Jew in the area and killed them. So I thought I may as well pretend to be one of them. Pretend to be a German informant. Join them or die." His voice wavered, and he dropped his gaze. "It hasn't been easy."

Ian suddenly noticed the jagged scar between his eyes, and he took a better look at his appearance. Sohinki's face had grown gaunt and drawn, his eyes always watery. His hair had grown out a little, and it hung lank, and he hadn't shaved in weeks. It was then he realized what had happened to Sohinki, why he appeared so different to him – he was broken. The detached confidence he remembered had been utterly shattered, and a frightened shell of a person remained. Sohinki could never quite meet his eyes and he kept fidgeting with his fingers. _This could have been me, _Ian thought. _If I didn't have James there, the other gunrunners there, I might have ended up just as fucked up. _He felt strangely guilty; nothing that had happened to Sohinki was Ian's fault – in fact, their fates had been quite similar. The only difference was Ian had walked away from it angry and haunted, and Sohinki broken and lost. "The others think you're dead," Ian said.

The other man gave a start. His fingers actually froze. "You've talked to them? How are they?" he demanded, his voice high and tight.

"They've been through some stuff, too," he said. "But they're alive."

"How –" His voice broke off. He swallowed hard and crossed his arms, clutching his forearms so tightly his knuckles turned white. "How's Mari?"

Ian didn't miss the desperation in his voice. "She just came out of her coma," he said. "She asked about you. Several times, in fact."

Sohinki closed his eyes briefly. Something Mari had told him floated to the front of his mind, something she had said the day she had woken up – _Where's Sohinki? He's the one who found me, you know. He should be here..._

"You're the one who found her," Ian said suddenly, his pain forgotten. "Did – you didn't have anything to do with what happened to her, did you?"

"_No,_" Sohinki said at once. He sounded almost scared. "I didn't. I swear."

"You were there," he said quietly. He was gripped with a sudden, inexplicable anger, even though he had been estranged from Mari and the others at the time.

"I arrived after it happened. I was supposed to meet her somewhere and she didn't show. I had _nothing _to do with it." Sohinki looked at him fiercely. He was trying to tap into his old confidence, but it had none of his former slyness, the ease of tongue the old Sohinki used to possess. "Do you really think I would hurt her?"

"I don't know," Ian told him coldly. "I've seen a lot of things I never believed would happen."

There was a flash of pain in his eyes. "I _didn't _hurt her," the other man snapped.

He sounded desperate. After being separated for three years, it seemed he couldn't stand the idea of someone attacking Mari, and even less so when he found himself accused. Ian forced himself to let go of his anger. Sohinki had not been the one to attack her; he wasn't to blame. "If that's true, then help me take this guy out," he said.

"I can't do that," said Sohinki. "I can't do something that would interfere with our cause."

His scowl returned. "_Our cause,_" Ian repeated with a sneer. "Jesus Christ, whose side are you on, Sohinki?"

"The winning side," was the response. Sohinki kept his posture very still, very poised; it was as though he was afraid if he moved, Ian might lash out at him. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're losing this war. It doesn't matter to which country you belong – all that matters is getting out of this alive, and the way to do that is to join the side that's going to win."  
"I can't believe you," he said harshly, and the other man almost seemed to recoil at his tone. "This is the guy who hurt Mari and you're just going to let him get away with it?"

"He hurt a lot of people," Sohinki murmured, dropping his gaze.

"You're just willing to join up with him to ensure your own survival?"

"Is it any different from what you've been doing?" He raised his eyebrows. "I assume you've been working with someone to help _you _survive, and to avoid us."

"Gunrunners are much different from Russians," Ian snarled. "I don't care what you say, Sohinki. I'm going after him."

Sohinki looked at him, his expression pained. "Then you're a fool."

"And you're a coward," he retorted. His guns and ammo were gone, he realized suddenly; the Russians had taken them as soon as he was captured. Ian gave Sohinki a long look. "You got a gun?"

The other man flinched and subconsciously raised his hand to his belt, turning away from him; Ian let out a harsh laugh. "You can't have it," Sohinki told him, trying to sound defiant. "You're not gonna use it to kill Vladimir, you can't –"

"Vladimir," Ian repeated with a cruel sneer. "Like he's your fucking friend – this is the asshole who put Mari in a coma!"

He leapt at him, catching Sohinki with a punch to the stomach that had the other man buckling over, and made a grab for the gun – Sohinki twisted away from him and aimed a blow to the side of his head. Ian avoided it by inches, elbowed him in the nose and heard a satisfying _crunch; _he straightened up to find a pistol aimed between his eyes, only an inch away from his skull.

Ian was panting from the short tussle, and his injuries burned, but he smiled at Sohinki's terrified, conflicted gaze. "Going to shoot me?" he asked.

His grip on the gun tightened. Ian watched the emotions churn behind his watery eyes; he knew Sohinki wouldn't do it, as he knew the faces of men who could and couldn't pull the trigger, but he almost wanted him to end it right there and then. The barrel of the gun trembled in his hand.

"How loyal are you to these guys, Sohinki?" he said softly.

Blood trickled from the other man's nose. Grimacing in disgust, Sohinki dropped his gun arm and handed Ian the pistol. Ian smirked and he held it and examined the rounds inside. It only had a few shots left, but he didn't need many to take out his target. Sohinki's voice wavered as he tried to sound strong. "I'm loyal first to the Russians now, Ian. If I see you again after you leave this room, I will have to kill you."

Ian laughed at that. "You're giving me a chance to run. How nice of you. But you already gave me your gun, Matt." He turned and faced Sohinki. The other man was trying so hard to be brave, he could tell, but not only had the years taken their toll, his own words had too – he hated to brand himself a traitor. "I almost wish I could meet up with the others again and tell them that Sohinki, who they had all hoped would return to them, had become a fucking coward."

Sohinki looked as though Ian had struck him. There was icy hatred in his tawny eyes, but also a longing to go home. "You don't want to do this," he said softly.

"Pretty sure I do. You can make yourself useful and tell me where he's going to be. Or I suppose I could wait here for him to come back. Either way, I'm going to find the son of a bitch."

The other man gazed at him, and for a moment Ian thought he might cry. Then without warning, Sohinki strode through the door he had entered and left without a word.

For a moment, Ian stared after him. "Shit," he said aloud. Sohinki was going to find the Russian man and warn him, or at the very least find someone who could stop Ian. He should have put a bullet in his back as soon as he started to leave, but it was too late now – Ian couldn't follow him. Sohinki knew this building all too well and was probably well on his way to taking care of whatever the hell he was up to.

Ian could only try and get to the Russian man before Sohinki warned him. With his pistol in hand, he walked to the back door. _One last mission, _he told himself as he slowly pushed it open. _And with luck, I won't walk away from it. _

* * *

A/N: Dammit, Sohinkles, you're not helpful.

Next time: More violence! Yay xD

Three chapters left!


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Finally got the motivation to complete this. I'm so sorry for the wait. The next two chapters are pretty much done - they just need to be edited. I'll be updating this fic weekly until it is complete.

Much violence ahead.

* * *

John's last words had ordered Ian to kill Russians, and that was just what he planned to do.

His injuries screamed as he stalked out of the interrogation room and the blood pounded in his ears. This was it. This was what he had waited six years for; the moment he would be able to put a bullet in the head of her killer. All those years of living in a pit of despair – the alcohol he needed to get him through the night, the anger he kept like a festering wound – if he killed this man, Ian would be healed. It was the last memento of his terrible past, and when the Russian was gone, he would be whole again.

It was what he kept telling himself as he limped through those blank halls. In truth, Ian had no idea what he would be like once the official was dead. His mind was a chaotic, tumultuous place, as likely to throw him into the darker recesses of his memory as it was to keep calm. There was no telling how his mental state would be once the man who had haunted his nightmares was dead and he lost his only remaining purpose.

But he would worry about that later.

There wasn't much to look at except white walls occasionally splattered with long-dried blood from the Russians' initial takeover of the city hall. Ian kept his teeth grit against the pain and his gun in hand, and he moved as quickly as his injuries would allow. If Sohinki reached the official before Ian did, the entire headquarters would be alerted to his presence and the hunt would begin. Unfortunately, Sohinki had a major advantage over Ian: he knew where the hell he was going. Ian ambled through the halls using his best judgment to decide where to turn, but he was convinced he was becoming more and more lost every time he passed an empty conference room or an office. Where the fuck were these 'headquarters' – were they even in the same building? The thought made him almost miss a step as a rush of frustration washed over him. Still, he kept moving.

_Would the others help me if they saw me now? _Ian found himself wondering. Driven, angry, bloody and tortured, would those people who had declared him as their friend help him reach his goal or at least tend to his injuries? Ian had very nearly killed Anthony, and he knew that the others would be quick to assume that he had something to do with the bullet in his former friend's stomach. Would the others help him o_r would they abandon_ _him_ as hastily as Ian had left them? He supposed he wouldn't blame them if they did.

His thoughts were thrown from his mind when figures caught his eye. Ian ducked beneath a half-wall and listened to the voices beyond; they spoke in Russian, and from what he had glimpsed before he hid himself, they sat around a table as they discussed whatever they planned to do next with their sudden power over the city. Ian waited a few moments then slowly began to raise himself. Sohinki would be there any minute to warn them – he did not have long to make his move.

With just one eye peeking around the corner, Ian gazed at the collection of faces around the table some twenty feet away. There were no women, as expected, just a bunch of grizzled old Russians, many of whom looked as though they could tear his face in two with their bare hands. They spoke in low voices, and Ian caught bits and pieces of their conversation: "The Americans aren't giving up..." "How can we find more arms for our soldiers? Their weapons are stolen from their bodies out on the field."

Ian smirked; he had stolen from many dead Russians, looting their bodies after a battle like a scavenging crow – and oftentimes, he and the other gunrunners hadn't even participated in the fight. It seemed the gunrunners were inadvertently doing their part to helping the US win the war.

As interesting as the talk was, he was not there to listen to their plans. The target he wanted to assassinate still breathed, and there was a good chance he was sitting at that table. Ian leaned as far away from the half-wall as he dared and studied those with their backs to him. With more than a tiger tattoo to go by, it was far easier to identify him. He sat closest to Ian, his bald head and twisted scar visible even from the distance. It ran like a lightning bolt from the base of his skull to the front. The official sat quietly. Ian could see his own blood splattered across his clothes.

His grip on his gun tightened. The man who had killed Melanie was right there, within shooting distance, just waiting for him to strike. Ian knew it would be a difficult shot to make with a pistol, but with his experience and his drive, he was pretty sure he could make it. Ian raised the gun. In one shot, it would all be over.

But he hesitated. If he killed the guy now, took him out in a cowardly assassination, the official would never know who had killed him or why he had been targeted. As satisfying as it would be to watch his brains burst through the front of the man's head, Ian wasn't quite ready to let his six year conquest end so abruptly.

So he hesitated.

A door at the opposite side of the room opened.

Ian strained to see who the newcomer was, and his heart lurched the moment Sohinki reached the table. He could see the desperation and fear in his eyes. His former friend opened his mouth to speak, to warn them.

He made a split-second decision. Ian aimed the gun at Sohinki, fired, and ducked behind the wall.

Shouts split the air as chaos arose at once – Ian heard the startled cries of the Russian officials, some of their chairs falling to the floor in their haste to leave the table. He heard panicked orders and drawn weapons – someone even fired off an accidental shot, so great was their confusion, and the Russians seemed to think there was more than one gunman. Ian didn't hear much of their orders after that. He was running as fast as he could down the hall, putting as much distance between them and himself as possible.

This was the part he looked forward to, Ian realized as he found a stairwell and ran up the steps two at a time. Shooting all the Russians he could manage before they overwhelmed him and he died in his last stand. He hoped James would be proud of him. He had no plan. None, other than kill them and hope he could take his target down with him. Ian's mind was a blank slate of instinct and adrenaline as he checked the rounds in Sohinki's gun and waited at the top of the stairs for his first target.

His heart pounded dully. Ian had not seen Sohinki be shot. He had no idea if the bullet had even met its mark._ But_ _i_f his previous record for shooting his enemies was any indication, Sohinki should be lying dead right now._ Whatever Sohinki's fate happened to be, h_e found he didn't care that much.

Ian listened for voices on the current floor and from the floor below. He was wedged in a corner behind the door and the staircase; only those coming up the stairs would see him, and he had a gun fixed right above that top step. All he had to do was wait. The panic and confusion echoing up the stairs almost made him laugh. After the Russians had caused him so much grief over the years, this small attack felt liberating. He couldn't wait to pull the trigger and kill the first Russian bastard he saw.

He didn't have long to wait.

Someone began frantically running up the stairs. Ian shot him as soon as his forehead became visible. He left an impressive splatter of blood against the opposite wall and he listened to the man tumbling down the flights of stairs.

Leaving the body down there would mean giving away his location, but Ian didn't mind. Let them come, he challenged silently, John gave me one last task and I'm going to make him proud, dammit.

But at the uproar of voices at the base of the stairs, Ian suddenly knew he couldn't stay in the corner much longer – it sounded like a group of at least ten was about to ascend, and while he could undoubtedly shoot the first few that appeared, it would not be long before he was shot too. Ian sprang to his feet and hurried toward the door. The mercenaries after him appeared and shouted at him in Russian.

He twisted around and shot the one in the lead – he fell back against his friends, shot in the stomach, his gun raised but the aim askew. The Russian pulled the trigger.

As Ian reached for the door, he felt a searing pain slam into the back of his leg. It felt as though he had been struck with a metal baseball bat but the impact had somehow lodged itself deep in his flesh. Gritting his teeth and suddenly staggering, he threw himself into the door, stumbled around it, slammed it closed, and locked it in place. He heard Russians shouting and pounding against the other side.

His leg seized. Ian staggered, catching himself on the frame of the door before he collapsed. The blood running down his leg confirmed that he had been shot. The pain was incredible; like something was burying its way through his flesh and had stuck in the back of his thigh, refusing to move. Gasping with pain, he attempted to stop the blood flow, pressing his hand against the wound. Blood leaked between his fingers. His mind worked frantically to come up with a better solution.

He almost didn't hear the footsteps. "Ian," came a hauntingly familiar, nasal voice, and Ian looked up to find Sohinki standing in the middle of what had once been a conference room. The other man was bloodied from a wound in his shoulder – apparently his bullet had met its mark, though the aim was shoddy. Ian hastened to straighten himself, but his leg very nearly gave out under his weight.

In the end, he stood there slumped, his hand resting on the doorway. "What the hell do you want?" he snarled, fighting to keep the pain out of his voice. "You here to finish me off?"

Shame and anger washed over him. He hated that Sohinki had to see him in such a pitiful situation. Cornered, bleeding, shot, hardly able to stand. It had made his words in the interrogation room invalid, frustratingly proving Sohinki's point – he didn't have much chance of pulling this off. "I tried to warn you," the other man said softly. It was then Ian noticed the strange object in his hands. He had been a gunrunner for too long not to recognize a bomb when he saw it.

Ian sent a blunt nod toward the bomb. "With a bomb, no less. That's a bit dramatic."

Sohinki's jaw was set. "I'm sorry."

"You fucking fool. You're going to get us both killed! And probably everyone in the entire base, including your fucking allies."

"This bomb isn't powerful enough to destroy the whole hall. They know, Ian," murmured Sohinki. "They know I'm the one who let you out. They told me to make sure you were dead, because they wouldn't allow a traitor in their midst. So I'm dead either way." Fear crossed his expression and Ian watched him hasten to correct it. The scars on his face had never been more prominent. He knew at once that the Russians wouldn't grant him a quick death.

Ian swallowed. His leg burned horribly. "Then help me kill him," he growled in a low, biting voice. "You don't have to do this. If we win, I can take you back to the others. They've missed you. They want you to come back."

Shoot him! a voice in his head begged. Just shoot him, Jesus Christ, get it over with! He's going to kill you.

But Ian made no move toward his gun.

He waited. He could almost hear the wheels turning in Sohinki's mind. Anguish lanced through otherwise stoic eyes. There was nothing remaining of the man he remembered, who would get so competitive during games and upset when he lost, who was so proud he very rarely admitted how much his coworkers meant to him. Ian knew he would never get that chance now. Sohinki's hand moved toward the dial on the bomb. "I'm so sorry," he choked out.

Ian ducked behind the table.

The explosion that followed was nothing he could have prepared for. Several things happened at once: the bomb emitted a noise like a thunderclap that left his right ear numb, a powerful, invisible force shoved him into the far wall, and a searing heat traveled up his neck. His world was suddenly engulfed in flames and smoke, and as he lay there, trying to understand and process what had just happened through the dull ringing in his ear, Ian felt the floor begin to shift and give way.

He had nothing to prepare him, nothing to hold onto. One moment, he was lying amidst the chaos, and the next, he was falling, and soot and flames and rubble fell with him. Ian landed painfully on what felt like a desk – as he doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, he caught a mouthful of soot. Pained and unable to breathe, he rolled over, and collapsed onto the floor.

The heat was unbearable. The flames from above had traveled quickly down to this floor, igniting everything from curtains to desks aflame. His injured leg throbbed horribly. Ian began to cough, removing the soot from his mouth, but the movement agonized his ribs bruised from the fall, and what he realized must have been a burn on his neck. He caught the horrific stench of burning hair and hastened to put out the fire using his jacket, smothering the flames on the back of his head.

A sudden kick to his ribs knocked the air from his lungs once more. "You fucking son of a bitch," the man snarled in Russian as Ian crumpled into a ball. He didn't need to see his face to know it was the official he had been trying to kill. "Why don't you just die?"

He walked around his folded form and kicked him solidly in the small of his back. Ian bit his tongue to keep from crying out as he was slammed into some of the soot and rubble from above. Lying on his back, in too much pain to speak, he got a better look at the Russian official. He too had been hurt in the explosion – Ian saw redness creeping around his face, too mottled to tell if he had been struck with something or was a burn. Hatred twisted his already distorted face as he gazed down at his victim. Ian swallowed several times. His throat was horribly dry. "Sorry," he said, so softly he wasn't sure if the official could hear him. His voice was tight and pained. "Not until I do what I came here to do."

The Russian gestured angrily, shouting over the crackling flames. "All of this – gone! Gone, and you almost dead, and for what? This person I supposedly killed years ago? I do not remember. You have foolish priorities, boy."

"I guess I do." And his hand closed around a piece of broken glass and he slashed at the man's knees.

As a furious howl rang out, Ian found his balance and threw himself into the official, striking as many times and he could with the shard of glass. Bloodied and enraged, the Russian caught his wrist and kicked him roughly in the shin. Ian twisted his arm, wrenched his wrist free, and slashed across the Russian's stomach.

At this point, he was running on frantic, frenzied instinct. He was pretty sure he had lost his gun in the blast but he hadn't bothered to check. The gun would bring too quick an end to this fight, anyway. Ian wanted him to suffer.

The Russian roared. Blood caked his front, running in thick rivulets down his clothes. He caught Ian's wrist once more as he attempted to stab him in the neck; the official lurched his arm down and head-butted him right in the face. Stars exploded in front of Ian's eyes and he heard a distinctive crunch as blood poured from his nose. Dazed, there was not much he could do when the Russian grabbed him by his hair and slammed his head against the side of a desk.

His vision blurred, as though a drop of water had distorted it and could not be cleared. Ian collapsed onto the floor once again. His entire body ached and burned, he was pouring sweat from the fire, and blood ran freely from his nose. The Russian muttered something he could not hear. Ian felt the floor shift slightly as he moved, and suddenly, there was unbearable pressure on his left hand. His already agonized body hardly felt the tiny bones in his hand crack and break.

_I'm going to die here,_ he thought numbly. _I'm going to die, and he's going to walk free, even after what he did._ The thought sent a wave of vindication and fury slamming into the back of his mind, reminding him of his purpose._ I can't let him live_. Ian forced his eyes open, pressed his hands against the floor, and tried to rise. His broken hand screamed.

"No, you don't." The Russian grabbed his shoulder. Ian saw the flicker of the bloody shard of glass just before the official stabbed him in the chest.

Pain exploded near his heart, and it radiated from there, spreading as quickly as the blood seemed to flow. Ian pressed his broken hand against the wound, his vision blurring and his ears ringing. He felt the warmth of his blood trickling through his fingers, and felt the same warmth in his mouth. Blood seeped from the corner of his lips.

He felt himself falling.

_No!_ he tried to scream. Blackness tugged at his mind, threatening to pull him into unconsciousness. Ian fought to stay awake, even as he felt his life leak between his broken fingers. He saw Melanie's face, smiling serenely, laughing in that carefree way of hers. She was dead, and the person responsible assumed Ian was too and had walked away, leaving him to bleed or burn to death.

_Kill him._ It was as though demons had arisen in the back of his mind. He felt exactly as he did almost every time Anthony walked into the room – the same terror and despair grasping his heart, turning his blood to ice in his fear of the memories assaulting him. But this time, they were there to help him. They turned his terror and despair into a need to survive, and right now, the direct threat to his survival walked not even feet away from him. So long as this man lived, he would never be whole, not truly.

Almost blind with pain, Ian forced himself to focus. His uninjured hand felt along the nearby rubble, coming into contact with something searing hot and withdrawing every once in a while, but still, he searched. His hand closed around the familiar, snug grip of a pistol.

It wasn't his pistol, he knew, it was someone who had probably died in the explosion when the ceiling collapsed upon the unfortunate soul. But his death was a godsend for Ian. He wiped blood and sweat from his eyes, aimed the gun, and pulled the trigger.

There was a splatter of blood and a roar as the bullet met its mark in the man's shoulder. He collapsed at once, twisting his body around to look at Ian with eyes blazing with something more than hatred.

But Ian was already rising, getting up despite the substantial amount of pain he was in. Blood snaked its way down his chin and from the stab wound in his chest, but he got up. He wanted his face to be the last thing the Russian man saw.

He staggered over to him, using the desks as support. His broken hand hung limply at his side, the other hand clutching the gun. The Russian let him approach. It was as though he had given up, had recognized that Ian wasn't going to let him walk away from this. They stared at one another; both faces bloody, agonized, both full of loathing, though one man's hatred ran far deeper than the other. Ian saw a flash of Melanie lying dead, her hair matted and crimson, gore splattered around the house. And he shot him through the heart.

The man fell back. His chest oozed blood, his dying heart pumping crimson intermittently until it was a steady trickle.

_It's over._ Ian looked down at the dead Russian. Even surrounded by burning chaos, his body battered beyond recognition, he felt his mind clear. Free of demons. Free of afflictions from terrible events from years past. _I did it,_ he thought numbly. _I did it, it's…over._

Then the blood loss caught up with him and he teetered on his feet. Ian staggered past the dead man, suddenly entirely focused on his survival. _I can escape this,_ he told himself defiantly. _I can get out of here. I'm hurt, I know I'm hurt, and the place is a mess, but I can make it._ His steps were uneven, his breathing hitched and labored. But still, Ian pressed on. He could not see where he was going – his vision was too blurred, his head too muddy to make sense of his surroundings. He tasted blood in his mouth. His injuries prickled, deadened under the severity of his condition. He was beyond pain at this point.

_I can make it…_

Ian did not have to die in this place. He didn't have to die as he had promised. People wanted him to come back, didn't they? Mari did, and Joshua, and David, and…

His foot caught something. Ian fell roughly onto the floor.

For a moment, he lay there, too stunned to move. Then the weakness caught up with him and he felt too feeble to get up, too injured to make it any further. _I guess I am going to die here,_ he thought numbly. Despite everything, the tiniest of smiles cracked upon his dry lips. _I guess I got both of what I wanted._ The Russian was dead and Ian would no longer have to live in a world without the girl he loved. He would be free.

As blackness tinged his vision, Ian could have sworn he saw a bright light piercing his eyes. Voices and shouts sounded around him. The other Russians had found him, that must have been what had happened. Hands grabbed at him. _Let me die,_ he begged to no one, _just let it end._

_ Let me die. _


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Second to last update! Almost done...

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May 10th, 2019

Mari sat in the waiting room of the hospital, a shawl draped over her shoulders and her leg bouncing anxiously. She was exhausted. Anger, despair, and frustration seethed and boiled at the pit of her stomach. She suspected that so much raw emotion wasn't good for her; she had only been awake for a few days, after all. But the day had been wrought with incident after incident, each one leaving her wondering if her best friend would live or die.

That son of a bitch, she thought bitterly. He told me he would have help. He promised me...

Anthony had warned her, she supposed. The world and the circumstances had made Ian devious and cunning, and he wasn't above tricking his own friends. At this point, she didn't know if Ian's care for her was sincere. Had he just wanted to know the location of Melanie's killer? Was that all he wanted from her? Unease had her hugging her knees as she shivered. She suddenly wondered if the she and the others should have spent so much time and money on the doctors…

Mari jumped when someone called her name. "What are you doing?" David asked as she whirled around. "Where is everyone?"

As she hurried to her feet as quickly as she could manage with her stiff joints, Mari noticed at once that something had changed about David's demeanor. Where the man riddled with sadness and guilt once stood, there was now her old friend, standing tall with a bright smile on his face, and despite everything that had happened, despite the horrors Mari had been through that evening, she had to smile too. Then she noticed the two people standing on either side of Lasercorn. "Oh my God!" she cried, pitching forward on unsteady legs; David reached out to catch her, but she brushed him aside. Without warning, she hugged the little boy at his father's feet. "You must be Logan," she said happily as she pulled away.

The boy rocked on his heels, looking at her with huge brown eyes. "Are you Mari?" he asked shyly.

Mari let out a wet laugh. "Yes, that's me," she said. She ruffled the little boy's hair and stood. "Sabrina...I'm so, so glad you're here."

David's wife smiled serenely. Mari had always loved her smile. Sabrina gave one hundred percent of herself in everything she did, whether it was in work on reassuring a friend, and Mari could see it too in her smile. The older woman looked thinner, but healthy; there was not a scratch on her. "It's good to be back."

"You found them," Mari said to Lasercorn. Her heart felt as though it was about to burst. As far as she was concerned, the reappearance of David's wife and son was the best thing that had ever happened; his happiness was hers.

"I did," he said, and when he smiled, it actually met his eyes. "Where is everybody?"

And with that, Mari's face fell as she remembered both of her favorite guys lying in hospital beds, bleeding and unconscious. "They...they got hurt," she said in a small voice.

David's eyes widened and that wonderful smile faded. "What? What happened?"

Mari opened her mouth to explain, but her voice died in her throat. Could she really tell him that Ian shot Anthony? Even now, when she had seen the evidence herself, it was so hard to imagine that a once-perfect friendship could devolve to something so horrible. Mari understood Ian's hatred, his pain. She really did. But she didn't think that Anthony deserved to be shot for it.

Maybe I don't understand, she thought sadly. "Anthony was shot," she said bluntly. Someone else will have to tell him who pulled the trigger. I just can't, not now. "And Ian…" She swallowed hard. Even now, she kept her friend's secrets, no matter how angry with him she happened to be at the moment. "Ian found out who the guy was who hurt me. He went after him and nearly got himself killed doing it. He was almost dead, but the army interfered and pulled him out of there. He's recovering in the hospital now."

"God damn it." David shook his head and squeezed his wife's hand. "I was gone for, what, a week? One week and these two manage to land themselves in the hospital."

"They do get themselves into trouble," she agreed, just as Kalel walked stiffly from Anthony's hospital room. Both David and Mari turned their attention to her.

Kalel's face was set stonily, hard and angry. Perhaps she had heard Mari mention Ian and wasn't happy to hear the name of her husband's attacker. She walked with her arms tightly crossed. "Anthony is awake," she announced.

Mari felt the air leave her lungs, so great was her relief. She had known that Anthony would probably be all right; the doctors had confirmed it the day he was shot, but knowing her friend would probably be okay was another thing entirely until she saw the evidence herself. "Can I visit him?" she asked at once.

The other woman nodded distractedly as she looked at David's rescued wife and son. "Oh, David, you found them," she said, forcing a smile. It looked almost painful for her to hold the expression.

As Kalel reacquainted herself with David's family, Mari made her way into Anthony's hospital room. Her heart pounded dully in her chest. There were things she needed to discuss with Anthony – things he might not want to hear, recovering from a gunshot wound or not. And she had no idea if she could tell him in a way that would make him understand, or if he would even listen to her. Mari toyed with her fingers anxiously as she laid eyes on her old friend where he lay in the hospital bed.

Anthony looked far more pale and drawn than usual, but all things considered, Mari thought he looked good for a guy who had been shot days before. So unlike Ian, she realized with an inadvertent shudder; she could not rid herself of the sight when they brought him in. He was all blood and burns, almost unrecognizable…

He saw her shiver and tilted his head. "I don't look that bad, do I?" Anthony had drawn the blankets up to his chest, concealing the bandages on his stomach. Mari had seen them once. They were often bloody, as the hospital lacked the resources to change them often, and she hadn't been able to look at them for long. It was not only disgusting, but Mari found it a painful reminder of how far a once inseparable relationship had deteriorated.

"No," she said quickly. "Sorry. How are you feeling?"

"Weak. Gross," he said with a feeble smile. "Feeling like I want to be out of here. I think Joven's getting tired of looking after Emily while Kalel watched me sleep. And he only has one working arm, poor guy."

Mari returned his weak smile. A strange sense of guilt added itself to the uncertainty knotted in her stomach; Anthony was in strangely high spirits, all things considering. He did not deserve to hear what she needed to say. "I have to talk to you," she said quietly.

Anthony heard the seriousness in her tone and his smile faded. "Okay," he said, his eyebrows knitting together. "What about?"

"Ian," she said.

There was a pause; Anthony's eyes darkened and he folded his arms. "We're going to talk about why he shot me, right?" he almost hissed.

She looked at him patiently. No one knew for sure that Ian had indeed been the one who shot Anthony; but, upon finding Anthony will a bullet in his stomach and Ian mysteriously vanished, it was not hard to piece together what had happened. Still, she wanted to hear the truth from Ian himself. "That's part of it," she said.

"I know I made mistakes," Anthony went on, as though she hadn't spoken. The cheerful, upbeat air was gone from his features – as soon as she had mentioned Ian, his demeanor changed completely. Mari felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. "I know I shouldn't have left him there. But he can't keep punishing me for something that happened six years ago."

"There's more to it than that," Mari tried to say, but Anthony wasn't listening.

"Especially when it all worked out in the end," he said. "He's alive, we're alive – maybe if I had gone to try and save him, we wouldn't be. He doesn't know for sure."

Mari waited until he was finished speaking to press her point further. He was glaring at her, scowling as though everything that had transpired between him and Ian was her fault, and she never should have brought it up. "Did you hear that he's in the hospital?" she asked.

He gave a slow nod. "Kalel told me he was. She wouldn't say why, though."

"He was hurt murdering the guy who attacked me three years ago."

Anthony let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snarl. "Of course he did," he muttered. "Can't let anything go, can he? Reckless son of a bitch. It sounded like he almost got himself killed."

"He almost did. And that's…sort of what I want to talk to you about," she admitted.

Another pregnant pause. Mari could see the hesitance and confusion in her old friend's eyes. "I don't understand," he said. "I didn't ask him to do that. He didn't have to go risk his ass for you in one of the most dangerous places in the fucking city."

"He didn't do it for me," she said quietly.

Something in Anthony's eyes flashed. He settled into silence, staring at her in seething confusion. She couldn't imagine how he felt at the moment. Anthony had lost his best friend six years ago, dealt with the loss, gotten over it in increments, and when he found out that Ian was still alive somewhere, Ian wanted nothing to do with him. It was a difficult roller coaster of ups and downs, and Anthony did not need to hear that he had fucked up far more than he realized.

But Mari knew she had to tell him, simply because she didn't know how much longer the subject of their discussion would be around. She took a breath. "Anthony…he hates you. He hates you because when you left him to die six years ago, he really did end up losing everything."

Anthony had opened his mouth to argue, but by the time she had finished speaking, he had nothing to say. He waited, his eyes fixed intensely on her face.

"He lost everything because of you," she repeated quietly. "Anthony – Melanie is dead. She was murdered by the same guy who hurt me. There was nothing Ian could do to prevent it because after he had been shot six years ago, he was taken to the Russian prison. She either died while he was in there or while he was recovering, I'm not sure." Ian had not told her nothing about the prison, but Mari had gathered as much information as she could from the man who had found Ian in the first place – Joven. With some coaxing, Joshua had provided the missing points in the timeline she was attempting to put together of Ian's past.

It was as though the atmosphere had gone suddenly cold. Anthony was frozen in place; an aghast, heartsore statue, so still he didn't appear to be breathing. Mari had to swallow the emotion that tightened her throat before she could continue.

"He will not forgive you," she said. "But I know you will want to try. You might not have much time left. He killed the man who killed Melanie; I don't think he wants to stick around much longer."

Anthony tore his eyes away from her face and stared instead at his hands clasped tightly in front of him. A flash of pain crossed his expression.

"If you want to try and make amends, you need to do it now," Mari said quietly. "Before…before he leaves."

She was using the term very loosely. Mari had no idea what his plans were, but if she understood Ian the way she thought she did, she was pretty sure he believed that the world had nothing to offer him. The worst part was, Mari partly agreed. His remaining friends were not enough to entice him to stay. Ian had asked her to let him die if he came back to them near death, but even though she had managed to keep him alive, all she had done was guarantee Anthony one more chance to apologize. She could not control what Ian chose to do once he recovered.

There was a terrible silence. Mari's heart pounded dully in her chest. She watched as Anthony's mind churned, and after several moments, his features slowly came back to life. "I'll talk to him," he murmured.

She squeezed his hand and left him to his thoughts.

* * *

_November 16th, 2013_

_When Ian went back into the bedroom, he was surprised to find Melanie still asleep. He glanced at the time. It was nearly nine in the morning. The sun was shining outside, bright through the curtains. He sighed and moved to open them._

_"What are you doing still in bed? I thought you wanted to go to that – thing?" He tugged at the cord that controlled the curtains. They parted slightly, bringing light into the dim room. "See, I didn't forget. You said I would forget but I didn't."_

_He sat beside her. She was an oddly-shaped blond lump in the blankets, curled up and giggling. He caught sight of her wide smile. Ah, so she was messing with him. He poked her, and she let out a string of giggles. "Noo, it's a snow day," she mumbled, and broke into further peals of laughter._

_"Mel, we live in California. We don't get snow days." He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help a smile. "I thought you wanted to go to that thing – that thing with the art. I guess I did forget." He ran a hand through his hair. "But I remembered to tell you about it, and that's what matters, right?"_

_She laughed again. It was a hearty, genuine sound. "It is," she said. She pulled the covers away from her face. Her hair was terribly messy, blond strands sticking every which way. "But I thought you were going to come with me." She pouted, and even the fake sadness commanded his attention._

_"I thought so too. But Anthony said we have to do something for Smosh in LA. I guess I forgot what that was too," he added, and her grin returned. "So I'm flying there in a bit."_

_"Aww. Well, I guess it can't be helped." She sat up, the sleepy grin remaining on her face. She didn't bother to fix her hair. "You'll come back soon, then?"_

_"As soon as I can," he promised. He leaned toward her for a hug, and she clung to his shoulders and kissed his cheek. "I don't think it's going to be a very long shoot."_

_"Good!" She plopped herself on his lap. His arms closed around her waist. "Then we can discuss that thing. You know. The thing."_

_"The thing," Ian agreed, and his smile became peaceful and proud. "Yeah. We'd better...talk about it more."_

_Melanie returned his smile, excited and content, and hugged him again. He found comfort in that smile, the lavender scent of her perfume, and the familiarity seven years together provided – after all, Ian wanted to be absolutely sure she was the one when he returned to discuss getting married._

_It was the last time he saw her alive._

_Ian was aware of the dull ache throughout his entire body as it slowly recovered, but it was nothing compared to the anguish crushing his heart and twisting his very being. Why, as he lay in a hospital bed, broken and burned, had he chosen to dream about that particular memory? There was nothing that could have hurt him more. He wanted to cry, but he was still and unresponsive where he lay, a victim to his own mind._

When he opened his eyes, a bright, searing light cut into his vision. He shut his eyes at once. Ian seriously doubted his soul had ascended into heaven; he didn't really subscribe to the idea of such things and he was pretty sure he wouldn't end up there anyway, not with all the terrible things he had done. As he let his eyes adjust, he worked his jaw, trying to move his tongue. His mouth was horribly dry.

Upon opening his eyes a second time, he found the outline of a face before him. "Water," he croaked toward the unknown person. It took a moment longer to realize it was Mari, her face grim and stony.

She wordlessly reached toward a table or a cart he could not see and handed him a flimsy cup of water. He took it with his right hand, as he sensed that there was something wrong with his left, but Ian had forgotten his thirst. Seeing her stirred confusion within his dull, awakening mind. He took a moment to place it, until it came to him in one simple thought: I was supposed to have died.

"I'm...not dead," he said, but the words stuck in his throat. Mari gestured to the water and he raised the cup to his lips. His forearm was covered in bandages, he noticed as he drank, and his head felt heavy. Ian swallowed the water, suddenly angry. "You were supposed to let me die."

He had meant to sound harsh, but his voice was weak and feeble. Mari looked back at him, bored with his anger and unaffected. "You nearly did," she said quietly. "It took ten doctors and many hours of surgery to stitch your stubborn ass back together. Your heart stopped twice."

Ian closed his eyes briefly. "You promised me," he said.

"And you promised me you would have backup," she snapped. "I guess we both lied to each other."

Silence. Ian focused on the physical pain, the ache of his mending bones and the prickling of his burns. It was easier than thinking about the strange guilt churning in the back of his mind. He did not know what to say.

Mari narrowed her eyes coldly. "The doctors couldn't fix your hand," she said. "The little bones were too badly broken."

He already knew this. The news didn't really faze him. He would never be able to fire a rifle again, but the world probably did not need a gunrunner returning to work anyway. "How did you pay them?" he rasped out.

"We found your guns. Sold them. When that wasn't enough, Kalel and Joshua and me all contributed what we had. We still owe them, but we paid them enough for now."

I didn't think there were that many people who cared. He closed his eyes. "They shouldn't have bothered."

"Did you shoot Anthony?" she asked suddenly, her voice sharp like the crack of a whip.

Ian hesitated. He had not thought much of it before, but trapped once again under the weight of Mari's gaze, he was horribly aware of his wrongdoings, his guilts. He could not think of what to say. Mari crumpled, defeated, as the seconds ticked by.

"You did," she said quietly. "So that – that's why..." Her eyes widened, and she raised a hand to her mouth. Something clenched in his stomach. His injuries were less painful than what the expression on her face did to him. "That's why you gave David that district pass, isn't it? To get him away from Anthony."

He said nothing.

"I thought you did that because you cared about David, but...you had your own plans." Mari's face hardened. Ian saw the muscles in her face work as her jaw clenched. "You really are an asshole."

"You're catching on," he said, but felt no satisfaction.

She stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. Foreign emotions boiled in his gut, and it took effort to keep his face impassive. Anthony may have been the one he had shot, but it was Mari from whom he wanted to beg for forgiveness, to have her regard him the way she once had.

"In any case, he's awake," she went on abruptly, her voice dull and subdued. "He recovered well, despite your sorry attempt at revenge."

Ian said nothing.

"It makes me curious," Mari said, and she narrowed her eyes and layered her voice with a sly air, "that he survived. You've shot enough people by now to know where to shoot a man to make sure he dies. It's interesting that Anthony survived, isn't it?"

"I didn't die when I was shot," muttered Ian.

"But that is not all that ended up happening to you. Well, I'm sure that Anthony will feel sufficiently put in his place with a fresh scar in his stomach. Surely that will make up for everything you have suffered through."

Dull fury throbbed in the back of his mind. His injuries ached as though irritated by his anger. "Do you want me to go back and finish the job?" he snarled.

Mari smiled coyly. "Oh, no. We sold all your guns, remember? I just thought it was interesting you let him survive. Oh, and Kalel is around as well. She would like a word with you."

I'm sure she would, Ian thought bitterly, and he hoped he could avoid her. "You don't need to let her know I'm awake," he muttered.

He heard Mari's tinkling laughter, but it was tinted with contempt and utterly foreign to him. "Don't worry about that. We didn't spend all this money putting you back together just for her to murder you for shooting her husband!"

Ian listened to her cold laughter. "Sounds like you would be happy turning me over to her."

"Some of us would, perhaps, but I'd like to think I wouldn't stoop that low." She smirked at him, and just as suddenly, her face gave way to something fierce and driven. "But...all the same, you..." She leaned closer to him as her eyes blazed. "You did kill him, Ian," Mari murmured, and Ian knew at once that she meant the Russian man with the Siberian tiger tattoo. "Didn't you?"

He saw the excitement in her eyes, the burning desire for revenge from someone who had torn her life apart. They were not much different, she and Ian. "Yes," he said quietly. At a price, he thought, and ice froze his insides. He could not tell her about Sohinki. It wasn't fair to keep something like that a secret, but Ian could not bear to give her such news. Mari sat back, her face a mask of grim satisfaction. "But I didn't want to be brought back, Mari."

"Too bad. You're here now." She narrowed her eyes. "What are you going to do with the life I so generously helped grant you?"

"I don't know," he said truthfully.

Was that why she had brought him back? To thank him for killing the man who had put her in a coma? Perhaps she never cared about him at all. Perhaps he was right to think he was utterly alone.

Mari stood. She was as graceful as a dancer again, still quick and nimble on her recovering legs as she moved toward the door. "Well, I hope you figure it out. Some of us have missed you, though damned if I know why."


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Last chapter! Enjoy!

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Even as the days wore by, and Ian's injuries healed, he had never felt more inhuman. For six long years, he had lived under the curtain of memories and pain that held him and his mind in shadows, but at least he'd had a purpose. Now, with his gunrunning days most likely over and the main source of his anger finally dead, there was nothing this would could offer him. He was not surprised that he had lost Mari and the inexplicable trust she had placed in him. Ian may have killed the man who hurt her, but he had still shot one of her close friends – close for reasons he didn't understand. But why did she help save me? he wondered, and over and over again the question resonated, unanswered and nagging.

Melanie's killer was dead. He had spent the last six years of his life getting back at the Russians through tiny annoyances that would never truly hinder them – until the day he had murdered that official. Now he was without a purpose, a trained gunrunner who could no longer shoot anything bigger than a pistol given his shattered left hand. He spent his time in the hospital replaying the moment the bastard hit the floor, finally dead, his lifeless eyes fixed on nothing. He felt the same triumph, the same void drilling itself in his heart as his longtime purpose was finally fulfilled. What are you going to do now? Mari had asked him, and he had no answer to that question either.

He was unsurprised to receive few visitors. Anthony and Kalel kept their distance. He had thought Kalel would come marching down to his room at any moment to give him a brutal lecture and possibly get a few punches in after he had shot her husband, but he had seen no sign of her. After Mari's initial visit, Joshua tentatively came by to attempt to cheer him up. The other man's arm was no longer in a sling and his nose had healed well, slightly crooked but no longer blackened and bandaged. Joshua told him about Anthony's recovery, about taking over Ian's role in helping Mari with her physical therapy, about the return of David and his family. Ian didn't mind the company as much as he thought he would. Joshua's innocent rambling was distracting, and he couldn't help but wonder if it had been Mari who had sent him to him. He hadn't seen much of her, either. Every once in a while, he would see her walk up to his door, check that he was still alive, and leave without saying a word.

Ian awoke one day to find a tray of food beside his bedside table and the bandages removed from his head. He was not yet strong enough to sit up and reach for a bite of sandwich, but he couldn't stand the thought of food anyway. Ian attempted to return to a dreamless sleep, where neither his guilt nor his emptiness could touch him, when the door to his room opened.

Numb shock rooted him to the spot. The voices and flashbacks in his head stirred at once, but Ian was able to ignore them and keep his face utterly impassive. He watched as Anthony made his way over to his bed and pulled up a chair. Ian searched his heart for fury, for betrayal, for that raw hatred that had forced him to turn his back on his best friend. They had afflicted him the moment he had laid eyes on Anthony after six years apart. But it was as though those emotions were on hold, waiting to hear whatever he had to say.

Anthony kept toying with his hands, and Ian felt his interest sharpen when he noticed his former friend could not quite meet his eyes. Before, Anthony had looked at him without shame, an entitled indifference to all the pain he had put him through. He sat in the visitor's chair with his leg bouncing nervously. "You look a lot better," Anthony said at last. "I'm glad to see you're recovering well."

And Anthony looked as though he was healing well too; there was very little sign that he had been shot recently, apart from the occasional grimace of pain when he moved. But Ian could not bring himself to return his friend's sentiment. He felt nothing toward this man sitting beside him – no comradarie, no contempt. Maybe I'm not angry anymore, Ian thought, and felt hope flicker in his chest.

When Ian said nothing, Anthony bowed his head, his lips pressed together. Ian stared at him. He knew what was coming and yet he hardly dared to believe it. His heart slowed to a quiet, unsure beat. "I'm sorry," Anthony choked out. "I'm so sorry, Ian. For everything."

This is what you wanted. This is what you've been waiting for. But Ian kept his gaze fixed on his former friend, watching the anguish twist his face. After all the denial, all the excuses, what had made Anthony change his mind about what had happened? Even stranger, Ian had resented Anthony for dismissing his hardships, but instead of relief at his long-overdue apology, he just felt a strange numbness. Surely it hadn't been Anthony's idea to suddenly change his tune…

Ian was so engrossed in his thoughts, he almost missed Anthony's next words. He spoke in a low, empty monotone. "I'm sorry I left you there six years ago. You were my best friend. I should have done all I could to save you." Anthony met his eyes at last. Ian noticed the water brimming around the tawny orbs. He looked pathetic, as he should. Had Ian been the man he had been six years ago, he would have felt sorry for him. "It was wrong of me to just do nothing."

Ian couldn't stand it. He had to look away. He tore his eyes away from Anthony's, staring at his bed instead.

"I had no idea what would happen to you after," Anthony went on, and something froze in Ian's chest. "It's bad enough that I just thought you were going to die, but losing...losing her, Ian, I'm so sorry, I had no idea..."

His heart missed a beat. He snapped his head around to look at his former friend. "Did Mari tell you?" he asked quietly, finding his voice at last. Ian's voice was low, dangerous. It was the tone he used when he attempted to extract information from someone right before the captive was shot.

Anthony nodded uncertainly. "Y-yes. I heard about it from her."

Ian stared at him. His throat tightened and his hands began to tremble. All at once, the emotions and memories he had been harboring for six years came back in a terrible wave; it was like a darkness tugging at his heart and pulling him under an endless sea. He could not control it, even if he had all the vodka in the world. It was so much worse this time, and it took a moment for him to realize it was because Ian suddenly knew that he wasn't changed, he wasn't fixed, despite everything he had done to try and save himself. He had the proof in the sudden storms in his mind. He was free of the prison, free of the man who had taken Melanie away from him, but Ian was still the broken, alcoholic gunrunner with no hope for change. He would never be free from the person he had become.

His entire body began to shake. "You son of a bitch," Ian snarled.

Anthony sat frozen in his seat.

"I'm never going to see her again," he went on in a whisper. Screams and gunshots echoed in the back of his mind, so loud now. "She's gone." Anthony gripped the edges of the chair, and his eyes darted toward the door; the search for an escape only added fuel to Ian's anger. "She's gone!" he shouted, his voice breaking under the strain. "She's gone because of you, she's not coming back!"

And now it was horribly clear, the realization he had been trying to run away from and fix through other means: Anthony was the source of his affliction, not the Russian man he had killed.

The other man sprang to his feet and moved to leave, all in one fluid motion – he must have realized how futile it would be to try and reason with him. Ian grabbed the tray of food and threw it at him. Bits of sandwich, pudding, and a plate exploded over his head and fell to the floor.

He was left in silence.

The memories had never been louder. Ian made no attempt to fight them, to keep himself in the present. He was thrown into each and every one of them, and they had not lost their power to hurt him.

As they slowly began to fade and the worst of the attack died out, a nurse came in and asked what had happened to his tray of food. "I threw it at someone," he said. The nurse let out a sigh, as though quite unsurprised at the burst of anger, and cleaned up the mess.

Ian watched the ceiling. He was not the healed man he had hoped he would be after killing the Russian official. It was time he accepted that now, and figure out what he was going to do with himself from there. He had no hope of recovering, of letting those memories and flashbacks fade away for good, where he could not be pained by them anymore... Unless –

Unless he did finish the job. If Anthony died, would that finally bring him peace? I won't have long to wait, he thought. The Russians' plan to attack Anthony's home would be carried out soon, and he and his family had no idea of the danger. All Ian had to do was wait.

And he would finally be healed.

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May 30th, 2019

There was nothing left for him here. Ian slipped quietly out of his hospital room one day, wearing the same bloody, burnt clothes in which he had arrived. He walked with a limp and his broken hand hung uselessly at his side, but there was a strange determination to his step, the helpless determination of a man who had nothing to lose.

Something made him pause beside Anthony's room. His friend lay there still recovering, but unlike Ian, he was surrounded by people who loved him. Emily sat on his bed beside him, swinging her legs and chatting happily about all her father had missed while he was away, and Kalel was close to him, her hands enclosing his. Anthony pulled his daughter in for a hug.

Was this the life I could have had? Ian found himself wondering. A wife. A family. He had not dwelled much on what he could have had – he was too busy distracting himself from what he had lost – until he saw it right in front of him. His heart constricted in his chest and he moved quickly away from the scene. He didn't want to see any more, and there was something he needed to take care of anyway.

It was not hard to get himself a gun. Mari and the others may have sold all of his firearms, but Ian had other places he stored his weapons. He was paranoid enough to have a backup for his backup – something other gunrunners had overlooked. Ian armed himself and did little to hide his injuries. In the bathroom of one of his stolen apartments, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face was peppered with cuts and old bruises, and the hair that had been burned away was slowly coming back. The burn traveling up his neck had healed somewhat into pink, tender flesh, still painful to the touch. And with his bloody clothes, he looked like someone who had been through hell and back – for this last mission, however, he welcomed the disheveled appearance.

He found the headquarters without issue and made his entrance known by shooting the two guards just inside the door. With the building in a panic, Ian operated on instinct, emboldened by the familiarity and the violence. He may have been thrown into the work, but this was where he belonged, for the simple reason that he was good at it – not many gunrunners could have done what he did the day he killed the Russian official. He found John among the mix of American and Russian gunrunners and killed him too. Even the sight of his former coworker's dead body did nothing to ease the killing frenzy boiling his blood. By the time his gun was almost out of rounds, bodies lay at his feet and the floor was soaked with blood.

Ian was not surprised to find that his target had locked himself in his office. He shot the knob off the door and opened it. At once, Luke recoiled in his chair at the sight of him, covered in blood and running purely on adrenaline. "Ian!" exclaimed Luke. "You – you're alive!"

"Unfortunately." Ian moved closer to the coward behind the desk. Luke's eyes darted about, from Ian's face to the gun in his hand to the door he had left open. He had never noticed what a pathetic little man he was. "You seem surprised."

"I – well..." Luke rung his hands anxiously. "Look, Ian. I was offered a fantastic deal for your death. It – it's just business...surely you understand. You would have done the same to me, right?"

"Perhaps," he allowed. "But you brought John into it and almost ruined a personal mission of mine – not to mention you almost got me killed."

Luke stared up at him. Ian heard him mutter "just business" once more as his body trembled and his eyes watered. "We're old coworkers, Ian," Luke said, offering him a weak smile. "Surely that means something."

He almost laughed out loud. Loyalty meant very little to him – just look at who he used to consider his friends. "Not to me."

And he shot Luke in the face and left.

He wandered the city for a while. His mind was an unstable, chaotic flurry of negative emotions, bouncing from one terrible memory to the next. Once, Ian found himself back at the hospital, but there was no one there he wanted to see. He caught a bus and headed downtown.

The people on the bus, Russians and Americans alike, kept their distance from him. Ian couldn't blame them. He was a mess, bandaged and bloody, a gun visible in his pocket. When he stepped off the bus in the remote, abandoned area of the city, he knew they were happy to see the back of him.

It seemed to take him no time to find the backyard. Numb and deadened, Ian stopped in front of her grave. "I did it, Mel," he whispered. "He's dead." And he sat beside her as twin rivulets of tears ran silently down his face.

Movement behind him had him whirling around, a hand on his gun, but the intruder was only Mari. He turned back to the grave, ashamed of his tears. Wished she would leave, prayed she would leave, wondered how she had managed to follow him.

But Mari sat beside him, placed her arm over his shoulders, and let him cry. He was so surprised, so shocked that she was there just for him, he completely fell apart. And it was then that Ian realized that he did have someone who still cared about what happened to him.

And Ian could not give that up.

"Why are you here?" he whispered. They had sat in maybe fifteen minutes of silence, save for Ian's quiet despair. He was held against her side, his head on her shoulder and her arm wrapped around him. It was strange, being held. It made him feel almost safe.

Mari's arm tightened around him. She leaned her head against his. "Because you need me," she said simply.

"I lied to you. I shot one of your friends."

He felt her shrug gently. "You're my friend, too. We forgive each other." She pressed her lips to his hair. "I'm more grateful to have you back. And besides, Anthony survived."

He did, Ian thought, numb with shock at her care, but when the time comes and those bombs hit south district… He swallowed hard. Mari had seen the worst of him, the terrible, violent side created after years of hardship, and yet here she was. Her faith in him was unshakeable, it seemed; he was just beginning to believe it, too. What would he tell her when Anthony and his family perished in the bombings?

* * *

June 1st, 2019

Ian found one of the only working payphones not far from his apartment.

His instincts screamed at him not to do this. Even as he reached for the phone and dialed the number his contacts had provided for him, every fiber of his being reminded him what he was giving up if he made this call. Peace of mind. Freedom from the memories, the flashbacks. No more reliance on alcohol.

He dialed the number.

It rang four times before a female voice answered. "Hello?" she said, puzzled and concerned. No doubt unused to receiving phone calls. He almost didn't recognize her voice, as it lacked the wariness and contempt she so often donned when speaking to him.

Ian took a breath. "Listen carefully," he said quietly. "There is a Russian plot to drop bombs on south district sometime this month. You and your family are in danger."

There was a pause. Then the woman began speaking, harsh and angry. "What? Who are you? How do you know this?"

"You have to leave now if you want to save yourselves."

Another pause. He heard a sharp intake of breath. "Ian?" she whispered.

He very nearly hung up right there and then. "Go to what used to be the bookstore in south district. There are people there who will help you."

There was a long pause. For a moment, Ian thought she had hung up the phone.

"I..." Kalel's words faded as she fought for something to say. "We will. Thank you...Ian."

She ended the call.

Ian hung the phone on its hook. For a moment he stood there, searching his heart for the decrepit mental state he had retained for the well-being of someone he hated. It was there, as was the strong desire for something to drink, but...he felt different. Better – not completely healed, but not as anguished and conflicted as he used to be. He didn't understand it, however he was not going to complain.

"Are you coming?" Mari asked as she walked up beside him.

He had a new purpose, after all.

Melanie was not alive today to say the words herself, but Ian knew she would want him to do everything in his power to protect Mari. She was as alone as he in this new world, and with the others occupied with jobs and wives, it fell to him to look after her.

Ian returned her serene smile. "Of course," he said.

Together survivors, they walked along the desolate roads, searching for a new way to press on.

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A/N: _Fin_.

I hope you guys enjoyed Overthrown. Ya'll better be nice to me, it's my birthday today xD

I have some news regarding the future of my Smosh fics. I've decided Smosh isn't going to be my number one fandom anymore (sorry, stuff happens and I move on) so I will not be posting the sequel to this fic in the near future unless I get some mad inspiration for it. However, I will still be updating VEM because I still enjoy writing it.

I hope my readers aren't too disappointed with this decision. I'm going to be doing a NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month event where a writer sets a high goal such as word count and works toward it every day) for my original novel I've been dreaming about for years. After that, I'll be working on more fanfiction.

Thank you for your understanding, guys.


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